The Case of the Cursed Treasure
by Jenz127
Summary: COMPLETE! After a friend disappears, Holmes and Watson strive to find them. But is there more to this case than just a simple disappearance? And what part do rumours of a buried treasure play? Please Read and Review!
1. The Riddle

**Hi, this is the prologue of my newest fic. It's very short…but there you go… I want to start posting it soon within the next few days. Please tell me what you think!**

**Disclaimer - I do not own any Sherlock Holmes related concepts. **

**The Case of the Cursed Treasure**

**Prologue**

To find the treasure, the seeker must go to:

The house of God in the Place of our fathers

The figure of our famous ancestor

The ruin of the house of our past

A book in The City of the Dreaming Spires

The Bridge over the River of Death

Dimsdale unfolded the scrap of paper which he had had all his life, and read it through once, although he had performed this action hundreds, thousands of times. The clue had been gifted to him by his mother - although, he thought, she was an utterly stupid woman - unable to figure this riddle out, unable to find the answers. He _had_ to find the answers, had to repay the way that he had been treated all his life. They said that this treasure was cursed. What did he care of that kind of superstitious rubbish?

Some of the clues, well, they were quite simple. Anyone who knew a little history could find the answers. Others, though… He needed someone. Someone with inside knowledge, as it were. Someone who it would be relatively easy to extract with the minimum of fuss. Of course, there was one person. Someone who knew. Someone who had been passed the riddle down by their mother, like he had.

And he was going to get them. Force the answers from them. With violence if need be. Poor little one. But he didn't care. He had got past the point of remorse or guilt. All that motivated him now was envy, greed, hatred. He would do this. The treasure would be his. And God help anyone who stood in his way.


	2. The Prestigious Girl's Academy

**Hi Everyone - sorry this took so long to put up - but have been busy planning a trip to London (have persuaded my friends that we have to go to Baker Street - yay!) Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter (and the story) It's set in the same 'universe' as The Adventure of Morton Manor and The Mystery of the Lionsmere Ghosts, and involves some of the same characters (including Meredith), so you might want to read those before you read this. Usual Disclaimers, by the way.**

**This is mostly based on the Granada series, with the wonderful Jeremy Brett and David Burke (so Watson is unmarried). Holmes is aged about 32/33 and Watson about 34/35. Anyway, is that everything? Yes, methinks it is. So, Onwards and Upwards…**

**Chapter 1**

**_Meredith_**

Knock…

Oh, Lord…

Knock…

I groaned and rolled over, wondering to myself why on earth I had decided that living in the boarding school that I taught at, much less volunteering as a dorm-mistress, was a good idea. At the time, I had been beaten into submission by the headmistress' rather conspicuous hints about the lack of available teachers, and the fact that we younger teachers were so unenthusiastic in volunteering for anything. That, incidentally, was the reason that I had been press-ganged into organising tableaux and dramatics, taking public lectures (although the first of these was rather exciting), taking some of the girls riding, teaching needlework…

Knock…

I groaned, and reached over to the chair beside my bed for my dressing gown, as the knocking became more and more insistent. Getting up, I hoped against hope that one of the girls was not sick. Last time I had sat up with a poor child who was violently ill, I had managed to gain the illness as a present, and spent my twenty-second birthday thoroughly miserable, and being laughed at by my younger brothers.

Knock…

"Alright, alright, I will not be a moment…"

I pulled the dressing gown on, put my feet in some slippers, and walked to the door, falling over as I did so, and managing to catch my leg on the corner of a chest of drawers. Biting my lip, I managed to control the curses and shouts of pain which I would have given vent to if I wasn't meant to be a ladylike teacher in a prestigious girl's academy (the headmistress' sentiments, not mine), and opened the door.

In the corridor outside stood a little girl, no older than eleven, and in my sleep-fuddled brain, I tried to remember her name. She was terribly pale, with blonde hair in untidy plaits, and a dark red birth-mark across one side of her face. She was small, petite, and was wearing just a night-dress, something which was perhaps a little strange since school rules proclaimed that every student should wear a dressing gown if they left the dormitory at night. This would suggest that the girl had left in some haste, and I mused to myself that I had probably been spending a little too much time in the company of Sherlock Holmes. As the dear headmistress had said - "Less trips to the opera, Miss Throckmorton, more time studying and planning lessons".

The girl's name came to me, and I looked down at her, puzzled. She was not even in one of the dormitories under my jurisdiction, indeed, hers was at the other side of the school. "Celia?" I mumbled, still recovering from getting up in the middle of the night, "Whatever is it?"

"One of my dorm-mates, Miss Throckmorton. I think she's ill…"

"Then why ever did you not go and get a teacher whose bedroom was closer?" She looked at me pleadingly, and I sighed. "Oh, very well, child. Come along." I left the warmth of my bedroom, and made my way into the chill of the school corridors, following the little girl down one.

As we walked, I heard footsteps approaching, and the girl tensed. I looked down at her, confused, and looked up to see who else was walking around the castle on so late a night. Out of the darkness came a figure - a fellow teacher, Annalise Beaumont. She smiled at me "Up and about at this time of the morning, Meredith?"

"Apparently one of the girls in Celia's dormitory is ill."

"Ooh, I don't envy you that. See you at breakfast."

I groaned, "I really hope so. Goodnight."

We continued on our path, down the corridor, when I heard running footsteps behind us. I turned, and saw Annalise, her face worried, and not a little panicked. "Celia!" she called. "You room on your own…"

I stared at the little girl as she started to cry, her big blue eyes gleaming in the gaslight.

A scream echoed through the corridor, and my head snapped up in its direction. Annalise was lying, collapsed on the floor, a large, cruel looking knife thrust into her chest. I stood for a moment, staring, not quite able to take my eyes off the spectacle. How on earth could anyone be struck down right in front of me? Almost in a daze, I ran to my friend's side, taking in the amount of blood, the huge knife, the deathly pallor of her skin. Then, to one side of her body…a footprint. Large - a man's I believed.

A moment passed, quiet except for the faint sobs of the little girl. Then, I heard her inhale sharply, as a large shadow fell across me. I looked up. His face…so familiar… Pale skin…a bushy black beard…sunken eyes. I stared into his eyes, and he stared into mine. His eyes were blue and had a madness about them that I wanted to run from. But something in me had frozen, and I knelt there, just staring up at him.

His face cracked into a smile - yellowing teeth and diseased gums. He reached down for my arm, pulling me to my feet. At the stale smell of his breath on my face, I came to my senses, and managed to kick him smartly in the knee. At the same time, Celia started to scream - loud, ear-piercing. The man, whoever he was, turned and glared at her, pulling out a revolver, and pointing it at the terrified child. I leapt for his hand, and felt a great flash of pain and a snapping sensation as my arm was secured in his pincer-like grasp, but was too late, and heard the gun's report moments before I was struck over the head, and fell into a nightmarish blackness.

**Sorry this chapter's only short…no Holmes or Watson either…ah well, next chapter!**


	3. A Telegram Arrives

**Hi everyone - this chapter took longer to write than I thought it would. Also, went to London for two days this week, so have been rather busy. Got to see Baker Street though - yay! Although I did have to persuade my friends that yes, of course they wanted to see Baker Street, and that it was definitely an historical exercise to go and see 221B (Although the real 221B is now actually the headquarters of the Abbey bank) Anyway…**

**Disclaimer - I do not own any of the characters written by ACD. Some of the dialogue in this chapter is inspired by the dialogue written by Bert Coules in 'The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes'. I do, however, own the Throckmortons.**

**Chapter 2**

_**Watson**_

23rd September 1890

To say that I was in a little pain would be an understatement of astounding proportions. As Sherlock Holmes helped me up the stairs of 221B Baker Street, I had to admit that I wished that we lived either in 221A Baker Street, or that we had one of those new innovations - an electric 'elevator' - installed. Whenever my leg decided to play up, like it had played up today, seventeen steps suddenly seemed more like seventy. We reached the first landing, entered the sitting room, and Holmes helped me over to my seat, where I collapsed rather unceremoniously. "Dear heavens, Holmes," I muttered, "I am glad to be home."

I looked up to see that Holmes was peering at me in some concern. "It is alright, Holmes. I just needed to sit down. You know the leg is always worse during the wet weather." As he continued to stare, I got rather indignant at being stared at like a museum exhibit. "Holmes, for heavens sake! I shall be fine. I will not keel over."

Holmes sighed theatrically. "Fine, fine. Next time, I shall take my concern elsewhere."

"Make sure you do."

We sat in silence for a moment, listening to the rain battering on the windows. "I do not suppose," Holmes ventured, "You feel like the concert in Regent's Park tonight?"

"Funnily enough no. Although you never know Holmes, what with this rain, and that bandstand at the Park, if you stay by the window, they might come floating past in a few moments."

Holmes let out a shout of laughter. "Playing the Water Music by Handel. Oh, Watson, would it not be gorgeous?"

"Not if they all drowned," I said, dryly "Or worse, swept up in here and kept me awake all night with the awful screeching of violins."

The last part was said in jest, for I actually wished that Holmes would pick up his violin and start to play at that moment. I was terribly tired, and a few pieces of Bach or even one of Holmes' own improvisations might be quite soothing. Holmes had other ideas, however, his head full of our latest case, and desiring a sounding board.

Our latest case was something Holmes would call a little recherché. Unfortunately, it is something of such national and international importance, I cannot relate the facts here, but suffice it to say, Holmes was full of that excitement which came with an interesting and exciting case near its denouement.

"I must say," said Holmes "This case - this case, Watson! It has become quite interesting. It has rescued me from the tedium of London life rather well, and now I am back, with this case - well, I am quite re-invigorated."

"I know it. For the past three weeks before the case, you were moping around the flat, jumping up like a jack-rabbit every time the door rang."

"When it was the postman," listed Holmes in disgust, "The milkman, the butcher, the baker…"

"We did not get a call from the candlestick maker," I jested, "So, at least you could be thankful for that."

"Or," Holmes said, ignoring me, "One of Mrs Hudson's cronies."

"Yes. And you managed to scare that poor Mrs Dunwich so much when you started shouting curses at her down the stairs, that Mrs Hudson had to take her home. And then, we, or rather, I got a visit from her rather irate husband…"

"A rather interesting occurrence in a commonplace day."

"Well thank you for that."

"How on earth was I meant to know the man was a heavy-weight boxer?"

"I thought you knew everything, Holmes."

"Not about people I have not met!"

"I was going to place an advert in the columns of the Times, you know."

"Really?" Holmes looked at me, his eyes curious.

"I even got around to drafting it out. Mrs Hudson thought it was quite inspired. It read 'Sherlock Holmes - Consulting detective. No problem too big or small. Will work for keep. As long as his nosy compatriot can publish your case in an extremely professional and -"

"Florid," muttered Holmes.

I glared at him and continued "…_Readable_ manner to all and sundry."

Holmes scowled at me, but I did notice that his eyes sparkled in amusement. "You should not have put small, Watson. I would have received letters like this again," he pulled out a scrappy piece of paper, which was obviously a letter, and gesticulated with it, "asking me to look for dear old George, who disappeared last week."

"Who is George?" I said, shocked that Holmes could be so flippant. "A child? Some poor woman's husband? Or father?"

"George is a budgerigar. He is something of an expert in escapology."

"Ah."

We sat in a companionable silence for a few moments, before Holmes said "Well, Watson, what do you think of this case?"

"It is interesting."

Holmes then proceeded to enter into a rather long-winded discussion of the case, which I will not relate. Firstly, because of afore-mentioned security, and secondly because I fell asleep. Anyway, I was awoken from my slumbers by Holmes saying "Don't you think so, Watson?"

"Er…what…yes, I suppose so."

"Exactly. The criminal is obviously D'Angelou. No one else could have had access."

"You have solved it then, Holmes?"

"Yes, I have. And a darn sight quicker than Lestrade and his bunglers."

"Oh, come on Holmes, don't be too hard on them. They were not to know about the dead man."

"Well, I suppose I should have seen the prospective competency of the police department at the beginning of the case when the constable entered the room and made his one and only startling deduction before fainting - "Cor blimey, guv'nor, 'e's dead, ain't 'e?""

"Oh, come Holmes. It was not the lad's fault. It was a rather gruesome crime scene. Especially for a young man not far out of training."

"And then," said Holmes, waxing lyrical, "Lestrade came in and did not notice five separate ways in which the body had been changed. Whilst his constable was busy examining the floor at close quarters, we could have stripped the body naked, covered him in raspberry jam and decapitated him, and I don't think Lestrade would have even blinked."

"You seem to have rather an obsession with Scotland Yard, Holmes. Are you sure you do not harbour a secret longing to join their ranks?"

I was rewarded with another scowl from Holmes, which was matched by the scowl given to him three minutes later when Mrs Hudson appeared with the tea tray. Holmes squirmed like a little boy up in front of the school matron, and I smiled smugly when Mrs Hudson barged out of the door. "You could just say sorry to the poor woman for scaring her friend."

"I have," said Holmes sheepishly. "She wanted me to apologise to that terrible Dunwich woman. I said I would not until we received a visit from that violent husband of hers to apologise to you."

"Oh." I said, rather touched. "That is quite alright."

"We could have both revenged ourselves on him."

"Unfortunately, I do not think we could. Did you not see the man, Holmes? He was built like a brick house…"

"And had all the charisma of one too," said Holmes.

"Anyway." I said, "Now that the case is almost over, Holmes…shall we eat?"

To my surprise, Holmes nodded eagerly, and managed to polish off almost a whole chicken on his own. I felt sure Mrs Hudson was planning to save most of the bird for sandwiches the next day, but I was so pleased that Holmes was in such a light, happy, jubilant mood, that I did not care.

All of a sudden, the door flew open, and Mrs Hudson rushed in. Quickly, I dropped my newspaper, to shield the sorry remnants of the ex-bird, but Mrs Hudson did not seem to notice. She held out the yellow form of a telegram to Holmes. "This is urgent, apparently, sir."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson." Holmes said dismissively, and the landlady departed.

"What is it, Holmes?" I asked.

"Probably from Lestrade…I…" He stopped. Read it once. Paled. Seemed to read it again, and then murmured "Dear heavens."

"What is it, Holmes? Has D'Angelou escaped? Are the papers really lost?"

"It has no bearing on our case."

"Moriarty?" I ventured, tentatively.

"No." Holmes handed the telegram to me. "At least I do not think so. Read it out loud to me, Watson. I want to see… that is… I wish to make sure my eyes are not playing tricks on me."

I nodded, and read; **HOLMES, WATSON STOP PLEASE COME DARLINGTON HALL ACADEMY KENSINGTON STOP MEREDITH DISAPPEARED STOP TEACHER AND STUDENT DEAD STOP YOURS GREGORY THROCKMORTON**.

"Lord above," I murmured "We will go to the school, Holmes?"

"Of course." In one great rush, Holmes ran across the living room, vaulted the couch, and opened the door, calling down "MRS HUDSON, GET US A CAB!"

He then run into his bedroom, and dressed for outdoors - coat, hat, gloves, cane. Meanwhile, I, finding that my leg was not so painful as before, rushed to my desk, pulling out my revolver, and loading it, before placing it in my pocket. Holmes rushed out of his room, down the stairs and out of the door, followed closely on his heels by me. I grabbed my coat, hat and scarf - as well as an umbrella - from the hook by the door, and shouted a quick 'good-bye' to Mrs Hudson, who assured me that she would have some chicken sandwiches waiting for us on our return. Oh dear. Anyway, I flew out of the door, and jumped into the cab waiting outside, already furnished with Holmes. "Ernie!" he shouted "I will double the fare if you can get us to Darlington Academy in fifteen minutes."

With this incentive ringing in the cabman's ears, the cab took off, nearly running over the unfortunate Mrs Dunwich in the process, who looked up and cursed Sherlock Holmes in a most unladylike manner from her position on the floor.


	4. Victim or Suspect?

**I am sooo sorry I've taken so long to update! Been a bit busy over here (actually mammoth busy, but oh well!) Oddly enough, hopefully updates should happen more often when I go back to uni at the end of this month (Er…yes. I really am working hard for my degree, honest!) Anyway, please Read and Review as always (because it makes me happy!)**

**Disclaimer - yep, as usual. If I owned Sherlock Holmes, John Watson and the rest of ACD's characters, updates would be quicker…**

**Chapter 3**

_**Watson**_

Our journey was nothing if not fast. The cabbie, spurred on by the promise of a rather extortionate fee, went at breakneck speed through the streets of London, so that when we arrived in Kensington, it was only a few minutes since we had left Baker Street. I had been surreptitiously studying Holmes intently during this time. Outwardly, he looked unemotional and cold, his eyes staring forward, and there was almost a hint of boredom in his expression. However, I did perceive small signs which I had learned to read during my long and intimate friendship with the Great Detective. A certain amount of tension around the jaw, a slight pallor (more than usual, that is) to the cheeks, a white-knuckled hold on his walking cane. There was no mistaking it. Sherlock Holmes was worried.

When we reached the Darlington Academy, the clock had barely chimed one o'clock in the afternoon. The weather was still terrible, the rain pouring down from the heavens, almost in sheets. As we had ventured out without the necessary umbrellas, we were obliged to make a dash for the door of the Academy (once Holmes had handed over the large pile of coins to the grinning cabman). Inside in the lobby stood three policemen, and a rather shaken looking maid, who relieved us of our coats.

"'Ere then" said one of the policemen. I studied him. A sergeant, the other two were constables. "Wha' 're you then?"

"My name is Dr John Watson." I said, "This is Mr Sherlock Holmes."

"Cor…'E is an' all!" said one of the constables.

The sergeant straightened, his accent refining, becoming decidedly less cockney. "Er…well, gentlemen, what is your business here then? Did Inspector Lestrade send for you?"

"No." I said, "We are a friend of the family of the young lady who has disappeared. Her brother has requested our presence."

"Has he now?" said the sergeant. "Well, I suppose she'll need all the help she can get." He turned and pointed at a room down the corridor. "Everyone is down there, if you care to go that way…"

Holmes nodded, and we left the sergeant and the two awe-struck constables to their muttering and whispers. As we walked towards the door, I cast my eye around. The lobby and subsequent corridor were well, although not richly furnished. The light came not from gas-lamps but instead from candles in sparse clutches on odd sideboards. The furniture was mis-matched, as if articles had been bought separately or donated. Every so often, a picture adorned the walls. Some were recognisable - a portrait in the style of Lely, a reproduction Constable, even…I noticed Holmes' eyes sweep this…a reproduction Vernet. There were also a number of paintings which I did not recognise, although from the rather less professional appearance of them, I would judge them to be by the pupils of the school.

We reached the oak door, and Holmes went knocked. An imperious voice shouted "Come in!", and so we entered. The first person we perceived in the rather dim light of fire and candle, was the figure of Inspector Lestrade - small, thin, a little…rattish. The second figure was of Gregory Throckmorton, who smiled worriedly as he saw us. His tall, broad figure seemed somewhat out of place in the overly feminine room, and he ran his hands through his black hair agitatedly. He had changed little since we last saw him about a year ago. He would be…twenty-eight or twenty-nine now, and the most notable difference was the beginning of a beard on his chin. Although whether this was deliberate or born out of an inability to shave for the last day, I did not know.

The third was a woman of around fifty. Her greying hair was swept into a tight bun, which accentuated her sharp features and her thin face. Despite the slenderness of her face, she was surprisingly large, taking up a great deal of space, with well-muscled arms. I would not have liked to go to her to be caned. "Well?" she said, before anyone else could say a word "Are you the undertakers?"

"No, Miss Darlington," spoke Holmes, "My name is Sherlock Holmes…my friend and associate Dr Watson. We were asked to present ourselves by Sir Throckmorton."

"Were you indeed?" asked Inspector Lestrade, turning a stern gaze to Gregory. "Sir Throckmorton, you cannot just go inviting private detectives to investigate police matters."

"Has something changed, Lestrade?" said Holmes, smoothly. "As I remember, in the last year or so, you have asked for my assistance to investigate 'police matters' well over fifty times…including, may I add, an instance when we were able to procure the arrest of a particularly dangerous criminal gang."

"Nevertheless, Mr Holmes…when the solution is so obvious…"

"You have come to a conclusion then, Inspector?" I asked, a little heatedly, I must admit, "And pray tell the contents…"

"The Inspector" injected Gregory, "And Miss Darlington are of the opinion that my sister killed the teacher and the little girl."

"Of course she did!" shouted the headmistress. "And the sooner she is arrested the better."

"Ah, my dear Miss Darlington," Holmes said, his voice quiet "I was told that Lady Meredith had disappeared…"

"Of course she disappeared!" said Lestrade, his voice exasperated "She ran. She had just killed two people in cold blood. But she will not get away with it…"

"For Heavens Sake!" Gregory shouted loudly, and we all looked at him. For a minute, he looked more like his father than ever before…angry, uncontrolled, dangerous. He stopped, seemed to rein himself in, and continued, although his voice was louder than it had been. I glanced at Holmes. He met my eyes, and arched an eyebrow. "My sister is the victim of an abduction…a kidnapping…and all you can do is stand around here casting scandalous aspersions on her good name! She is in danger! You have to do something…or God help me…"

"Sir Throckmorton!" Holmes' voice was loud, and stern. "Pull yourself together!"

But Gregory was not to be calmed, "Do you not care, Holmes? My sister…they could be doing heaven knows what to her…I asked you here to help me…"

"And Holmes will," I said, my voice soothing, "But you need to calm down, Sir Gregory. You will do neither yourself, or your sister any good by working yourself into a state."

"Your journey from Exeter must have been trying for your nerves, Sir Gregory…" Holmes said, quickly.

"How…how did you…?"

I looked at Holmes, and realised that he was doing his best to distract Gregory from his current state of mind. Amazement, was, at least, better than raging fury.

"It was quite elementary. The soil on your boots is most definitely Devon soil, suggesting a walk across a field to get here. There is no such field at your family's residence in London, and as the rest of your brothers have not joined you, I do not believe you have come from Cambridge…"

"You are quite right, Mr Holmes. The school has my address, but not the address of the family seat as Meredith's next-of-kin. Jane and Edward have gone to Morton Manor for the weekend. I sent a telegram to them as soon as I got here this morning."

Holmes nodded, then turned to Inspector Lestrade and Miss Darlington. "Now. I wish to see the scene of the crime, Lady Meredith's bedroom, and Dr Watson will no doubt wish to see the bodies…" I cannot say I harboured any abiding wish to see said bodies, but at the look of insistence that Holmes gave me, I nodded and he continued. "But firstly, I wish to outline three separate theories. "Firstly. That Lady Meredith did carry out the murders here…"

"Holmes!" Both Gregory and I shouted out in amazement and incredulity.

Holmes carried on regardless "…and ran from the scene. Secondly, that Lady Meredith came across the murders being committed, but due to the noise which had occurred in his performing the last two murders, he carried her away before he performed the third." I noticed that at this suggestion, my friend had grown a little paler by the merest fraction. "And lastly, that the attacker was purposefully out to abduct Lady Meredith, and the two others got in his way. This would mean that Lady Meredith is, at this moment, in the hands of her abductor, for some unknown reason…"

"I'll kill him when I find him," said Gregory, fiercely "I'll rip him to shreds."

Holmes turned, and to my surprise, placed a hand on Gregory's shoulder. "Your anger will not help us find her," he said, quietly.

"I take it then," said Lestrade "That you lean toward the third theory, Mr Holmes?"

"I do."

"Well then, I suppose I must prove you wrong. Mr Holmes, Doctor, Sir Throckmorton, please accompany me to the crime scene."

The three of us left the office, and went through a door, into what I supposed must be the private face of Darlington Academy. Painted, rather than wall-papered walls, sparse furniture, dark corridors and passages.

"Not the most pleasant of places." I said, quietly.

"No," said Holmes, "It's not."

"And that headmistress!" I said, "Reminded me of a matron we had at school…"

"Yes…" said Holmes. "I must say, I believe that mankind benefited when the lady spurned a life of domesticity and motherhood. The children would have been indescribable."

"What man would have her?" breathed Gregory.

I noticed Holmes' lips twitch, and I did the same. Holmes' eyes, however, scanned the corridors as we walked. There was a somewhat distracted look about them, and I could guess the path his mind was taking. What had happened to Meredith? And what was happening now?

We rounded a corner, and came to a longer stretch of corridor. Lestrade stopped. A large area of the corridor was blocked off, and a constable stood guard. We climbed over the blockage, my leg aching slightly, and surveyed the scene. A mass of muddy footprints. Two bloodstains, one bigger than the other. A gun.

Holmes walked forward, got on his knees and commenced the investigation, complete with measuring tape and magnifying glass. It took all of ten minutes, Lestrade looking impatient, Gregory distracted, and I interested. Holmes stood, turned to us. "I was right." He said, simply "Lady Meredith is in mortal danger." His voice shook a tiny degree. "You see here, a small blood stain…the imprints, for a couple of steps, of women's shoes, which had picked up mud from the footprints of a large man. How did you account for that Lestrade?"

"The larger footprints could be the care-taker's. He found the bodies."

"No. Those are the care-taker's." He pointed to a set of footprints. "A full half-inch smaller than the other men's footprints. Meredith was lured here. The first murder was committed. She ran to the side of the victim. Was approached by the attacker. He went to commit the second murder, with the gun. She lunged across him to try and stop it, but she could not. The second murder was committed. She was struck on the head with an object. Possibly the gun…you see the tiny bloodstain on it. Lady Meredith is not your murderer. In fact, Lestrade…" Holmes turned to the little man, and I saw something akin to anger in Holmes' cold, grey eyes "Lady Meredith tried to prevent the child's murder. Your accusations were slander, nothing less. And her actions may have cost her dearly."

"Oh Lord, Meredith" whispered Gregory. "What have you done?"


	5. The Bedroom

**So…erm…yes. Sorry about the delay! But when back at uni, I should be able to do more work on this (heavens, I hope none of my tutors are reading this…!) Anyway. Onwards with the story! Also my Holmes muse went missing for a bit, but I think I have him back. I think. As always, please read and review, as it makes me smile! :)**

**All usual disclaimers apply.**

**Chapter 4**

_**Holmes**_

Gregory's utterance was of just the sort of romantic, melodramatic sentiment that I cannot abide. I turned upon the young man with a vehemence which made Watson's eyebrows rise. "For heaven's sake, man. Pull yourself together." Suitably chastened, Gregory contented himself with looking daggers at me, before turning away to study the scene outside a window. Below us, large parties of police officers were conducting a search which I was more or less sure would have been quite useful if searching for a lost dog, but would be no use in seeking a large man and a young, possibly unconscious woman. I exhaled loudly, and felt, somewhat to my astonishment, concern radiating through my body.

I should perhaps take this opportunity to explain my feelings toward the young lady. My feelings for Meredith were, as Watson would term them, complicated. I cannot honestly say that I was _in_ love with her, but then again, I think it highly unlikely that she was _in_ love with me. I enjoyed her company, I will not deny it, and I respected her self-sufficiency. Perhaps there was some semblance of love in my regard for her, but I did not feel an all-consuming passion for her - indeed, if I had, the distraction of it would probably have driven me from my work, and so into madness. Watson, romantic that he is, thought it reprehensible and unfathomable that I did not act like a knight errant of old and woo the lady (possibly with verse and a large bouquet), but I suppose that is where we differ. I enjoyed Meredith's company - her conversation, her intellect, her manner, her wit - and I respect her more than I respect most women. Her disappearance troubled me greatly, and I felt a definite need to find her.

I surveyed the floor, the walls, everything in that dark and dingy corridor, before I looked up at Lestrade's voice ringing out. "Well then, Mr Holmes. It seems that you have this explanation thought out very well. But I am afraid my superiors will want me to follow up the most obvious lead." Stupid man. I felt my temper rise. Could he not see what was staring him in the face?

I was about to snap at him, when Watson placed a hand on my shoulder and shook his head. I would never admit it to anyone, but at that point, my nerves were somewhat frayed, and that gesture of Watson's went a long way in calming me. I stayed quiet, as the little man walked off…no doubt in search of evidence he would never find. I heard a exasperated sigh and looked over at Gregory. He was obviously quite beside himself…she was, after all, his little sister, and her loss, to a family so close-knit as the Throckmortons would undoubtedly be devastating…but he seemed different in some way. I dearly hoped that the father's utterly bad blood was not coming through in the son who looked so like him, but who, in previous meetings, had acted so unlike him. Imbalance in a father may come through in the son, but…as I say, I hoped that my fears were unfounded.

Watson had left my side, and had gone to comfort Gregory, placing a hand on his shoulder. He had realised that I would be utterly useless in that area, and so, my good, kind-hearted friend was acting the counsellor. I had been at the receiving end of his administrations enough times to be completely confident in his skills to help the young man. I stayed tactfully away until the young man had collected himself, examining an imaginary, but seemingly very interesting patch on the floor. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Watson draw away, and straightened up. "I do not believe that there is anything we can do here as of this moment. So…I suggest that we divide up. Sir Throckmorton, if you would be so good to accompany me to your sister's chamber…Watson, I should like you to examine the bodies."

"Very well," said Watson. Then his voice lowered to a whisper. "Holmes, be mindful of the state of Gregory's mind. He is under a great deal of strain."

"Of course. I will dissuade him from doing anything rash." Watson smiled quickly at me.

"What do you wish me to find out?"

"If there is anything singular about the bodies…or the murder weapons."

"Very well."

"Good luck, Watson. We shall, I suppose, meet in a couple of hours to compare findings."

"And then…?"

"Back to Baker Street, Watson. This is quite a four - or possibly even five - pipe problem."

Watson studied me for a moment, before nodding. "Very well, my dear Holmes. I shall see you in an hour or two."

"Beware the gorgon of a headmistress…I believe she took quite a liking to you…"

"God forbid," he said, dryly, and made his way down the corridor, in the opposite direction to the way that Gregory and I headed. We walked for a few moments, before coming to a wooden door. On it, the name plaque read - 'Miss M Throckmorton: Literature and Classics', and a sign secured to the door below said, in Meredith's own writing: 'Dorm Mistress; Austen and Bronte dorms - Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, Sunday'.

Gregory opened the door, and we stood for a moment in the doorway, before the young man entered to start lighting candles - the room was surprisingly dark for the time of day. The bedroom was located in what can only be described as a 'turret', two floors up. The room was of medium size, and it's most singular feature was that it was circular, apart from the wall held the door and a few small paintings. The paintings I studied quickly, and were of Morton Manor, a castle near a lake, and a rather pretty young woman, who I deduced to be the Throckmorton's mother, as she had features of similarity with all her children, especially with Meredith, Kitty and Jeremy.

Meredith's room was a simple affair, with plain, wallpapered walls of a dark blue shade, and a pair of drapes in a lighter blue. The room was rather cold, and in one wall was set a large fireplace, which had lately been used. There was a single bed, covered in a number of blue, red and green blankets of various colours and thicknesses. The room had not been tidied, and so the bed was unmade. There was a small mahogany chest by one side of the bed, a wardrobe of a matching shade, a dressing table on which stood a large engraved mirror, and a rickety looking bookcase, containing a number of books. There was also a hat stand in one corner which displayed a large number of ornate looking hats, and a large pile of shoes and boots next to it, in no particular order or semblance of tidiness.

Gregory had sat down on the bed, his head in his hands. I did not really have any idea what to do with him, and I wished Watson were there to provide some comfort. Instead, I would have to be firm. "Sir Gregory, I realise that you are worried about your sister, but you will do no good to anyone wallowing in sympathy. She needs you to help me, so for heavens sake, man, do as I say!" To my surprise, Gregory did not respond, and instead just looked up, and nodded. "Very good. I need to search this room from top to bottom. We need to find something, anything which might shed some light on this occurrence."

The young man nodded "What sort of thing, Holmes?"

"Letters, notes, anything like that. We need to know if Meredith was in contact with her abductor, or knew who he actually was."

Gregory stiffened, but made his way to the wardrobe, opening it and starting to carefully search it. On my part, I started with the chest by the bed. In it, I found a small box of matches and the stub of a candle, a small book of poetry and a translation of some work by one of the royal Princesses, a bible - much thumbed and weathered - with a dedication in the front to 'My dearest granddaughter, with much love on your tenth birthday, from your grandmother: Matthew 7:7', a small miniature of Meredith's youngest sister and a bundle of letters. Most were from Meredith's eldest sister, Jane, a couple were from Gregory, more written in three separate childish hands were from her sibling's children. There were also a number of telegrams - a couple, to my surprise, I saw were from myself. All in all, the chest revealed nothing new, and I turned to consider the rest of the room.

The young man, meanwhile, had finished in his search of the wardrobe, and moved over to the bed, to search under the mattress and pillows. I walked over to examine the bookcase which stood under a small window, high up in the wall, with relatively thin glass. I started to examine the books, pulling them out one after the other and flicking through them, before replacing them. I had just removed a large, bulky book of Classical history, when I felt something at the back of the case. Reaching my hand out, I found a small, aged journal, stuffed full of papers and notes, secured with a thin red cord, and with the initials 'MHT' in gold on the front. "Sir Gregory…" I said, quietly, and held out the small book to him.

He turned, and took the journal. "It's Meredith's alright - you see the initials? Meredith Helena Throckmorton. It was a thirteenth birthday present from Jane. I had no idea she still had it."

"She has used it recently. You see - the cord is new, the colour is not faded by time or the sun. This is a diary?"

"I did not know that she kept one…but she must do…" Gregory trailed off after that rather elementary deduction, and I removed the book from his hand.

"You give me permission to look through this?"

Gregory sighed, and nodded. "I would prefer not, but if it helps us find her."

I moved over to sit on the bed, and carefully started to undo the cord. When I had done, I opened the book, as a deluge of paper fell out. The last page of the book had evidently been used a few months before the girl's twentieth birthday a few years ago, suggesting that this diary had some sentimental significance to her to ensure that she kept it. In recent years, months and weeks, the book had been used more as a folder for random bits of paper, notes and sketchings. A few pieces of paper were of no importance - a lesson timetable, a lecture plan, a few notes on books, a set of verbs in Latin. Others, however, were of more relevance - a couple of pencil drawings of two unknown men, dated and timed. One was a large, black haired man, the other was younger, with light brown hair, and a mousy look to him.

I studied the pictures carefully, and noticed a note on the back of one of the pictures. It said; 'Noticed for last four weeks same people hanging around school. Two men…' I felt my lips upturn in a smile. The girl had realised that she was being followed, and had managed to give descriptions of the men. Now we had to find out who they were… "Good girl, Meredith," I said quietly, before putting the drawings aside.

The other papers were full of strange, disjointed notes. There were a few notes on some sort of 'river', and a couple of rough drawings of family trees. Meredith's writing was untidy by this time, and I could not decipher the names, only the fact that the people included had lived during the early seventeenth century. Lastly, secured to the inside back cover of the journal came a large, bulky envelope. The writing on this was Meredith's again, but was neat, and read 'On the event that this journal is found, please hand this letter to Lord Marcus Throckmorton, Morton Manor, Cambridgeshire'.

I turned it over a couple of times in my hand, before giving it to Gregory. If the letter did contain something important, I had no doubt that Marcus would contact us. For now, I had to find these two men. "I will travel up to Cambridge tonight, and give this to Marcus," said Gregory, quietly. I nodded, and rose, walking toward the small, undraped window and looking out, trying to decide my next actions. As I did so, I noticed a movement below us, and pressed my face closer to the window. Below, against the wall, a man was bending over, presumably to tie his school laces.

But…something…something stopped me from ignoring him. I am not a fanciful man, but I could swear that there was something not quite right about the man. I continued to watch him, the recesses of my mind registering that Gregory was talking to me, rambling on about something, but I did not care… The man below us suddenly looked up, and with a thrill, I realised that I recognised him. He was the younger man in the picture… I let out a cry, and he met my eyes, before I noticed what was at his feet…a pile of tubes…red tubes…and a fuse burning. Dynamite!

I pulled back, grabbed Gregory's arm and started to pull the surprised man across the room, depositing the journal in my pocket as I did so. But Gregory resisted, holding me back, and fixed me with a glare "What, pray, are you doing…?"

All of a sudden, there was a rush of noise, then a terrible silence, before the floor began to crumble beneath us. Something struck me on the back of the head. Then everything went black...

**Ahhh! Cliff-hanger!**


	6. The Bodies

**I am so, so sorry about the delay to this! Have been trying to work on my dissertation for Uni and have been neglecting this…but am back! Anyway, on we go!**

**Normal disclaimers, obviously.**

**Chapter 5**

_**Watson**_

I left Holmes and Gregory in the corridor, and made my way, as far as I remembered, back to the office of the dragon of a headmistress. I knocked, and entered, finding the woman exchanging words with a very cowed looking Inspector Lestrade.

"I will not stand for it. Do you hear me, Inspector?"

"Of course, of course, but if you'd just let me…"

"This business is taking place in my school, man! How dare you bring amateurs in to do your work!"

"Madam, I assure you it was not my doing. But Mr Holmes is a very skilled investigator. I am sure that he will treat your case with the utmost professionalism…ah, Dr Watson!"

Lestrade shouted my name with a mixture of heartfelt relief and ecstasy, and turned with a pleading look on his face…a look which said 'please…help me…' I swallowed down the bubble of laughter that rose in my throat and said "Inspector…Madam…"

"Do you know what this school is, Doctor?"

I turned at the terse remark directed at me and met the headmistress' eyes "No, madam, I do not…"

"Darlington Academy is one of the best girl's schools in the country after Cheltenham Ladies' College. It is, I believe, the best school in London. Lord Carmichael, Lord Beverstone, the Earl of Gloucester, the Duke of Somerset…they all send their girls here. Do you know what happens if news of this travesty gets out?"

"Inspector Lestrade, what has happened?" I purposely directed my question at the policeman, hoping to put an end to the lady's ranting, but this did not happen.

"Your arrival, _Doctor_, has meant that all of London's press has turned up at the gates of my school, wanting to know the circumstances which has brought such un-aesthetic policeman, and the Great Detective to Darlington Academy."

I turned to the woman, feeling slightly sickened by her dismissive attitude to my friend, as well as her unfeeling stance toward the dead woman and child and the abducted woman. How could she be so cold? "I might remind you, Madam, that a child has died here tonight, as well as a member of your staff…"

"I know that, but…"

I interrupted. "I hope you agree that it is more important that the murderer is found, rather than you avoid the press…"

"Well it is blatantly obvious that the murderer is the Throckmorton female!"

"Lady Throckmorton has been cleared of any misdeed by a detailed study of the site. She is innocent. In fact, she placed her life in danger to save the child, and may even now be in great peril, that is, of course, if the bandit who carried out these atrocities has not ended her life already."

The woman started, and looked at me with a horror filled expression on her face. All of a sudden, she looked slightly more human. "Oh…oh…but the press!"

"I would suggest, and I am sure my colleague and the inspector here would agree that the school would be treated very sympathetically by the newspapers. In fact, if a description were circulated of Miss Throckmorton, it may help us to trace the murderer." I was rather clutching at straws for this last point - it was most likely that the abductor, whoever he was would have a carriage waiting to transport Meredith, but I wished to settle the headmistress down.

"You think I should talk to them?"

"I do not think you could avoid it." I said.

"Indeed," Lestrade agreed.

"Oh, very well," the lady sighed, and exited the room. Lestrade glanced at me, and I glanced at him.

"I do not mind telling you, Dr Watson, that whilst I am not usually afraid of women, that one…"

"I do not think the phrase 'weaker sex' could ever apply to such a woman…"

"Indeed. Well, at least we are rid of her for a time."

"Do you think the parents will take the girls out of the school?" I asked, "Is she ruined?"

"I do not think the parents would dare to."

"I suppose not. Perhaps they will ask that increased security is brought in…"

"Just put the headmistress on the front door. No one will come in for fear of being savaged by that monster." We both smiled naughtily, like two schoolboys jesting at the shortcomings of one of our schoolteachers. "Well then, Doctor. What can I do for you?"

"I have been sent by my friend to view the bodies. Have they been moved to the morgue yet?"

"No, they are still in place in the cloakroom, two doors along. I will join you, actually. We'll see if Mr Holmes' deductive skills have rubbed off on us…"

I smiled, and we walked out, making our way along the corridor a very short distance to the door on which was marked 'Cloakroom'. Lestrade and I entered and looked upon the bodies, both covered with white sheets and lying on two wooden tables. The longer figure was obviously the teacher, Miss Beaumont. I moved over to her first, wanting to put off looking at the body of a dead child to the very last possible moment.

Miss Beaumont had undoubtedly been a pretty creature. Blonde, with wavy hair which fell around her head like sun-rays, she was elegant and aristocratic looking, a fashionable young lady. She was no more than twenty-five. I pulled down the sheet to view the wound. The dagger had entered the front of the body, just above the breast-bone. Death would have been more-or-less instantaneous. The murder weapon lay beside her, a devilish-looking instrument with a serrated blade. The fact that the man had brought two murder weapons - he obviously expected to have to kill.

I replaced the sheet back over the woman, and turned to the smaller figure, pulling back the sheet to reveal the child. She was about eleven or twelve, I would say. Her face was marked with a dark red birthmark, which spread over the left cheek. She had blonde, plaited hair, and her skin was chalky white, more than the pallor of death. The bullet-wound was not a pretty sight, and I will not disclose the nature of it here, but needless to say, the wound was made by a soft-nosed revolver bullet. It was really quite dreadful. I replaced the sheet.

"Have you done here, Doctor?"

"I have," I said, and found that my voice was slightly broken. I did not like viewing the bodies of small children who had met such violent ends. It all seemed such a waste.

"Then we had better leave. Miss Beaumont's parents will be here shortly, as will Miss Corrigan's…"

"Yes. Perhaps it would be just as well to leave this place…"

We walked out of the room, the Inspector closing and locking the door behind us. We turned from the door to find two young girls standing and staring at us.

Lestrade, not particularly natural around children said "Er…Hello then. What's this?"

"Hello, girls," I said, trying to be gentle. "You should not really be here. Perhaps you should go back to your dormitories?"

"No." The littlest child, a girl of around six years old, with dark hair, and an innocent, expressive face spoke quickly, then went red as Lestrade and I looked at her.

The bigger girl, who had black hair, and was around thirteen or fourteen had her arm around the little one. She looked up at as confidently, and spoke in an upper-class, well-spoken voice "My name is Lady Penelope Harriett, and this is Anna-Marie Keswick. I take it that you are Dr Watson?"

"I am."

"Anna-Marie saw something last night. I believe it may be important." she nudged the little girl "Go on, then…"

"I…I saw a man," said the little girl.

I crouched down to be on eye-level with her, and smiled gently. "Now, Miss Keswick, this is very important. I need you to tell me what happened."

"I…I was out of bed…and…I wanted to see Penny…"

"She's my cousin, Dr Watson…"

"Ah, I see. Carry on, Miss Keswick."

"I…saw a big man…with Celia. He was tall, and he had a big black beard and he had white skin…and he was horrible. I hid."

"That was a very clever thing to do, Miss Keswick. Did you hear what he said to Celia?"

"He wanted her to do something for him…some thing about Miss Throckmorton. He said she would have to pay if she didn't…"

I smiled, sadly. "Thank you, Miss Keswick…"

All of a sudden, the earth shook beneath our feet, and an almighty bang rang out. We stood, transfixed, the two girl clinging to each other and crying, Lestrade standing with eyes wide. A young constable ran down the corridor towards us.

"Inspector! Inspector! There had been an explosion!"

My blood ran cold, "Where man, where?"

"The tower, where that teacher's room was…the one who's missing…"

"Oh dear heavens…" I breathed, and started to run toward the door. "Lestrade!" I called back over my shoulder. "Get the girls and the teachers out. Now."

I saw Lestrade nod, and ran down the corridor, heading through the front door, passing the headmistress and hordes of shocked press, and running around the side of the building in the direction of the tower. As I run, a myriad of horrible scenes ran through my head, mostly of the mutilated and disfigured body of my dearest friend. I had seen far too many explosions in my time to hope that he would be unharmed. All I could hope, as I rounded the corner, and saw the rubble and remains of the tower was that I could reach him in time to aid his inevitable suffering.

**Ha ha ha! Evil Laugh Another cliffy! Don't worry, I'll resolve this as quick as I can!**


	7. Musings

**I am sorry for being so mean with this cliffhanger! But I have to keep you reading… Just a short chapter for now…**

**Normal Disclaimers apply.**

**Chapter 6**

_**Meredith**_

What hurts?

Head.

Arm.

Ribs.

And who on earth is groaning?

Oh heavens.

It's me.

I sat up as a string of incomplete thoughts went through my head. I heard myself groan again, and opened my eyes, as I tried to order my fuddled brain.

Everything was a blur…I felt sluggish, confused, dazed. I supposed I must have been drugged, because everything seemed to be happening so slowly, and all I wanted to do was to go back into that painless, lulling sleep that I had been in.

No. Concentrate, Meredith. First of all, where was I? Through the blurs, I perceived a darkened room. No windows, one door on the wall in front of me. Several pictures, but I could not focus on them. A sideboard, with one box and a large decanter of whisky on it. I lay on the floor, with a rug of some sort where my head had been. Wooden floorboards.

Next. How was I? My headache was subsiding slowly - no more did it feel like little men in steel studded boots were doing a Scottish jig on my brain. My left arm was bruised badly, and something had happened to the elbow, because I could not move it properly. The right forearm was a mass of small bruises and finger marks, together with a number of needle-pricks. I had been drugged with something needing an injection then - morphine, probably. My ribs were sore, and I was sure that one was cracked. Other than that, everything seemed alright.

Now, what had happened? I remembered Annalise…she had been hurt. And the face of that terrible man, with a black beard. So familiar… It came to me. No, surely it could not be?

I wondered whether they were looking for me. My family, Holmes, Watson. Surely they would? Although, my disappearance after a murder might bring them to the wrong conclusion.

Oh, how I wished I could remember! Things were coming back to me slowly through the fog, but it all seemed to take so long! The man, I remembered - or were there two? No, there had been two…men I had seen everyday, turning up outside the school, or outside Jane's house, or I had noticed whilst out shopping or riding. I had thought there had been something odd - of course, there was a reason why I should be at risk…just one, that I had been working on for the last few weeks…but no one had known about that, surely. But, just in case, and almost cursing myself for over-dramatics and paranoia, I had made arrangements for everything to be passed to my brother. The letter in the diary.

All of a sudden, sharp, unfriendly light cut through my musings, making me wince and shield my eyes, my head singing. A man had opened the door, and there he stood, silhouetted between the door posts.

I felt a thrill of fear as he came nearer, almost wanting to see who exactly he was. But it was not to be. My head and body rebelled at the bright light, and I felt the darkness stealthily cloud my vision. I fell back, and in the very last grips of consciousness, felt myself being caught and lowered to the floor before I could hit my head. I felt a needle being inserted into the vein in my right fore-arm, and everything dissolved into wonderful, soothing unconsciousness.

**The evil laughing continues! Anyway, sorry about this…I promise that the next chapter will resolve all the explosion stuff!**


	8. Aftermath

**I feel a bit bad about the horrible cliff-hanger, so am resolving it as quickly as possible! (And am on a roll, as it were!)**

**Normal Disclaimers apply.**

**Chapter 7**

_**Watson**_

"Holmes!" I yelled, as I ran. "Holmes!"

There were a number of people gathered around the rubble. Policemen, a couple of older women who I believed must be teachers, and even a small number of girls. The teachers were ushering the girls away, and I heard some of them crying as I approached. I saw, to my dismay, a broken, bloodstained body being carried out of the rubble. No…not Holmes?

But it was not. The man, who was completely disfigured, various parts of his anatomy crushed, was dressed differently. He was also decidedly smaller than either Holmes or, for that matter, Gregory. But that meant…they must be still under all that…

I reached the site, the dust still settling after the explosion. I made to approach the pile of rubble, but a policeman held me back. "'Ere, Doctor. It's not safe, yer know…"

I struggled, not caring that it was not safe. Not even caring that for some reason, the man knew my name. "Let me go." I said, and I felt my eyes fill with frustrated tears. "Let me go. Holmes…"

"Doctor…" the policeman started, but I did not listen, as I strained to get out of his grasp. Why did he not understand? Holmes or Gregory could be dying! Lying in that rubble alone, frightened, in pain. I had to get to them. I had to.

"Holmes!" I cried out, hoping for an answer from behind the cloud of dust, so that the policeman would realise how important it was to let me go. "Holmes!"

My answer did not come from the direction I had hoped it would. A voice behind the policeman and I said quietly, "Watson."

I pulled out of the grasp of the startled policeman, and whipped around. Holmes stood there, Gregory behind him. He had a large gash on his arm, his clothes were ripped and he was covered in dust. I stared at him for a full minute. Then, I murmured, "Thank God," strode over to him, and embraced him, pulling him to me, and not caring that for the first few moments he stood as stiff as a board before relaxing slightly and tentatively patting my back.

About a minute later, I realised exactly what I was doing, and pulled away, blushing bright red as I did so. I looked into Holmes' face, and realised that he was smiling warmly at me. "I am alive, as you can see, my friend."

"Er…yes…erm…sorry, Holmes…"

He shook his head, and placed a hand on my shoulder, saying nothing. I realised, with a jolt, that I was still shaking, and tried to collect myself. Holmes, meanwhile, had started to say something to Gregory, and both, who obviously had perceived my temporary weakness, were tactfully averting their eyes. But Holmes did not remove his hand from my arm.

The shaking passed after a while, and I felt able to say "What…How did you…?"

"I had seen the man who was hoping to blow us all - and especially Meredith's bedroom - sky high, outside planting the device. As it exploded, Throckmorton and I managed to dive for the door, and get into the corridor, which, whilst damaged by the blast, did not collapse."

"I am afraid," Gregory said, "That I almost proved the undoing of both of us. I am sorry, Holmes. I did not realise what was going on." He reached forward and shook Holmes' free hand. "You saved my life. Thank you."

Holmes said nothing, but did slightly colour at Gregory's words.

"Who was the unfortunate victim?" I asked, returning my gaze to the body.

"Our would be assassin, Watson. The mousy-haired young man. An accomplice in the abduction of Lady Throckmorton and the murders here."

He sighed, then reached into his inside jacket pocket and retrieved a large journal.

"What is that?" I asked.

"This is Lady Throckmorton's journal. The reason for the explosion was not to kill us. Indeed, I believe I registered a note of alarm in the face of that man who set up the dynamite when he saw me peering out of the window. The purpose was to dispose of something in that room. And I very firmly believe it to be this journal."

"Or this letter?" asked Gregory, extracting a large envelope from his pocket.

"Perhaps. But it is for your brother's eyes. If it does contain something pertinent to the case, you must inform us. For the two of us, we will peruse this book. I believe the answer may be found in here."

"I shall take it to Morton Manor immediately. A train leaves for Cambridge in half an hour. If I hurry, I will be aboard it."

Holmes nodded, and held out his hand, "I hope, Sir Gregory, that when we next meet, we will have the pleasure of the presence of your sister."

"So do I, Holmes." But Gregory looked melancholy, almost as if he did not believe it. Indeed, I thought, we had seen first hand what these people were capable of. It seemed very unlikely that Meredith had come to no harm in their clutches.

"Do not fear," Holmes spoke soothingly, "All will be well. We will find your sister."

Gregory, who had been walking away, turned, and I saw tears forming in his eyes, gleaming unnaturally. "Perhaps, Holmes. But will we be in time?"

He resumed along his path, walking hastily away from us, off to catch his train.

"Poor Gregory," I said, as we watched him walk away. "He has taken this hard. And no wonder. Do you think we will find her in time?"

Holmes looked at me, then said, almost as if to himself. "We will. Because we have to." He quirked a smile at me. "Back to Baker Street, my friend? A bite to eat, then to work?"

"Of course, Holmes. Are you hurt?"

"No, old fellow, I'm alright. This wound is but a scratch."

"It looks deep, Holmes."

"It is nothing."

"I shall have to take a look at it."

Watson, it is nothing that a change of clothes and a full stomach will not fix."

I nodded "Come then. Let us go back to Baker Street. Avoiding, of course, that medusa of a Headmistress. More than likely she will blame us for the destruction which has befallen her school…" I did, however, untie my necktie, and affix it to Holmes' arm above the wound as a tourniquet. Holmes shook his head, but continued with the conversation.

"More than likely. Perhaps we should flee. Although I may make a point of sending her a bill for this time we have spent in her school. We have, after all, spared her the humiliation of having to tell the press that she believes she has allowed a murderess to teach the children, and then having to refute it later."

I laughed, and we made our way through the crowds, surreptitiously past the headmistress, and into a cab that we hailed. We sat, side by side, in the hansom, and Holmes passed me the journal. "Have a look at this, Watson."

I hesitated "Do you really think this is quite right, Holmes? This is after all, Meredith's private diary…"

"I am sure she will not mind if it enables us to find her. Besides, a fair number of the more personal things we know already. She finished the journal just before her twentieth birthday, so most of the entries detail her treatment by her father. It is the inserts which I find more interesting."

And so, I glanced through the sketchings, notes, maps, random statements, and was still doing so when we arrived at Baker Street. We got out and paid, greeted Mrs Hudson, and called for something to eat. When we arrived in the lounge, I cleaned and bandaged Holmes' arm, before he removed the papers from the diary and started to study them, leaving me with the book. A few minutes later, the food was delivered, and we ate, before settling down to read.

Reluctantly, I began to read the journal, noticing the maturing of the hand, as the girl advanced in age through the pages of the book. All of a sudden, I read an entry which made me stop. "Holmes!" I cried out. "I think I've found something!"

Holmes looked up eagerly "Watson? Read it to me," he ordered, his voice demanding.

"Listen to this. _March 1883. I knew it! I knew there was something that grandmother was trying to tell me. For years she seemed to be dropping hints and the like, and now I know what it was all about!_"

"Well, well," murmured Holmes. "She has lost none of her effusive writing style. Read on, Watson."

"Well, if you did not interrupt…" I said, petulantly.

Holmes lips curved into a small smile "Consider me chastened. Go on."

"Alright. _After her death last year, I thought I would never find out what she was trying to tell me. But, this morning I was looking through the bible she gave me for my tenth birthday, and I found several sheets of paper stuck between a piece of paper and the back cover. Mother always told me to keep the rather ungainly thing for best, so I have probably used it only a couple of times over the last few years. It is rather vexing that this has been under my nose for five years and I have only just found it, but oh well. The papers contained a riddle! How exciting. Now if I can work it out! I guess grandmother was cleverer than father says. After all, she did put that verse in Matthew about 'Seek and ye shall find' in the front cover!_"

"A riddle!" I exclaimed. "Do you think that is why she was abducted?"

"It could be."

"Holmes…" I said, suddenly, as I saw the sheet of paper that he was studying. "That man…the drawing, the one with the beard. That is the man that one of the girls at the school saw with the little girl who was murdered."

Holmes nodded. "I thought so."

"And the other man? I suppose he was the detonator of the explosives?"

"That is right." Holmes looked down at his papers, before abruptly standing and walking over to the fireplace, where he picked up his pipe and lit it. "I have no data," he mumbled. "No data…"

"Holmes…" I said quietly, "We will find her, you know…"

Holmes looked at me, and his face broke into a warm smile. "Oh, Watson! Always the romantic! Do you believe me to be pining away for Meredith?"

"Are you not, Holmes?" I smiled quickly, teasing him.

"You know very well that I am not. I confess…I am worried about the girl…"

"Ah, Holmes. I am sure Meredith will be glad to know you care…"

Holmes grimaced slightly, and looked away, into the fire. "What is the time?" he asked.

"Two o'clock."

"Early morning. Perhaps you should go to bed, Watson?"

"There may be more to discover in the diary."

Holmes nodded and said nothing.

"Do you think that they will keep her alive?" I asked.

"Yes. I do. I believe that they need Meredith, and it is something to do with the riddle. The explosion was not a display of strength, but more to destroy the only lead we have on her."

I shuddered, my mind taking me back to the events of earlier that day. The terrible, terrible explosion…

"Watson?" Holmes' voice awoke me from my reverie. "Perhaps you had better turn in…"

"It is alright. I was thinking."

"Of the explosion?"

I smiled, "Yes, dear psychic friend. Of the explosion." I continued in an undertone. "I have seen far too many explosions."

"Well. We are safe now." Holmes' voice was a little tentative, but warm.

"Yes." I muttered and glanced at the book in front of me, and the pages on Holmes' desk "But for how long?"


	9. The journey to Morton Manor

**Yay! Am on a bit of a roll now. I hope it continues… Also, thanks to Kadigan and KCS for pointing out some things I missed in the last chapter. Have fixed them…**

**Normal Disclaimers.**

**Chapter 8**

I had been dozing for a while, my head resting on the table in front of me, when I heard Holmes' voice in my ear. "Watson…" came the voice, softly but persistently "Watson, you have to get up."

I groaned, tiredly "Holmes? What is it? Is something wrong?"

"It's alright, old boy. But we have had a missive. Here…"

He handed the yellow telegram to me, and I unfolded it. It read; **HOLMES, WATSON STOP PLEASE COME MORTON MANOR IMMEDIATELY STOP YOU NEED TO SEE LETTER STOP MARCUS AND GREGORY** I stared at it for a moment, before my tired brain registered the words, and gave me the jolt I needed to come awake. Holmes was already retreating to his room, and I heard him fling the doors of his wardrobe open and start to pull things out.

"Watson, you'll need to pack a valise. We could be gone sometime. You'll need your revolver, medical bag and riding gloves."

"Alright…" I answered, and made my way up the stairs quickly, putting a couple of changes of clothes into my valise, with a book, shaving kit, toilet bag, gloves and towel. I placed my revolver and bullets in my pocket, and picked up the small medical bag. Satisfied that I needed very little else, I made my way downstairs, where Holmes was waiting for me, holding the telegram that had just come, and a new sealed one. I looked at it, questioningly.

"For Gregson and Lestrade."

"The D'Angelou case?"

"Indeed. Surely even they would be unable to bungle a simple arrest."

"I am sure they will be fine."

"I jolly well should hope so…"

We made our way quietly downstairs, so not to disturb Mrs Hudson, and out of the front door. We walked down the street to the telegraph office, posting the telegram into the basket at the front to be sent when the assistants arrived, and hailed a cab. "Kings Cross, cabbie!" I cried, and the cab pulled off.

"What do you think that letter contained?" I asked, as we settled down for the short journey.

"I believe," said Holmes, "That the letter was, in fact, news of the riddle."

"You believe that Meredith sent it to her elder brother?"

"She felt herself in danger - otherwise why would she pay so much attention to the two men we know were involved in her abduction? She obviously thought whatever the riddle leads to of such great import that she had to send her findings to Marcus."

"Did she say anything to you, Holmes? The last time she saw you?"

Holmes looked a little sheepish. "I must admit that the last time I saw Meredith, I was somewhat distracted. In hindsight, I perceive that perhaps there was something wrong. Indeed, I believe she wished to tell me something…" He paused, and sighed, frustrated. "If only I had paid more attention…"

"You should not blame yourself. She could still have told you if it was something so important. Hindsight, Holmes, is a wonderful thing."

Holmes quirked a smile at me. "Yes, Watson. It is."

By the time we reached the train station, the first minute shards of dawn were beginning to appear in the sky. We caught the Cambridge train with moments to spare, and sat aboard, brooding. We did not talk, we were both too tired and too immersed in our own thoughts to do that, but it was not an unpleasant silence. The earliness of the hour meant that the train was near enough deserted, and the compartment was our own for most of the journey, apart from about twenty minutes in the middle, when our compartment was shared with two very giggly girls who studied Holmes with interest. When they left, I had to suppress a grin as Holmes sighed in relief, and muttered to himself "Women…"

The journey to Cambridge, and then the short connecting train journey to King's Morton was both quiet and uneventful. I even managed to catch a few minutes of sleep, before being awoken by the cry "King's Morton! Passengers for King's Morton!" Holmes picked up my valise as I struggled sleepily to my feet and gathered up my coat and my medical bag.

We alighted from the train, and I said sleepily "You should have awoken me earlier…"

Holmes smiled warmly, "My dear fellow, you looked so peaceful, I was loathe to. Now come, let us procure some transport to the Manor. Although I do believe that the only way to get there may be on horseback."

"We could walk…"

"We are both tired, and your leg is hurting you. I am sure we will find some suitable mounts."

I nodded, and followed Holmes off the platform, through the exit gate. As we entered the forecourt, two stables were obvious. One was a rather squalid looking place, with tired, depressed looking horses, and dirty stable boys just arriving for work. The other was a more respectable looking establishment, with well-groomed horses and a couple of grooms, bundled up in woollens against the cold. The former was obviously frequented more by the locals, whilst the latter was obviously for visitors and tourists.

I made my way towards the better looking stables, Holmes following behind. "Excuse me, my good man…" I called to a groom, "Would we be able to hire a couple of horses?"

The groom, who had been studying us intently, said, in a low, well-spoken voice, "Where do you want to take them?"

"Up to the manor. We will have a stable-lad bring them back…"

"Very well, gentlemen."

The groom beckoned to us, leading us through the stable-yard, where we paid our hire fee. I have to admit being impressed by the efficiency and cleanliness of the place, especially for so small a village. Holmes, however, seemed a little distracted. I put this down to impatience, and followed the groom out to where we were matched with a couple of horses - a chestnut stallion for Holmes, and a dappled grey stallion for myself. The valises were secured to the horses' saddles, and we were given directions.

As we rode through the village, I marvelled a little at how much it had stayed the same. The same pretty little church, the same public house, school, village green. Even at this early hour, a few children were playing on it, but stopped as we rode past, saluting us with a cheerful cry of "Good morning!"

Through the houses we rode, until we reached the great gates of Morton Manor. They were unlocked, and Holmes climbed from his horse, and opened them, so that we might ride through. We continued, down the road through the Morton Estate, towards the great house of Morton Manor.

So picturesque was the ride through the estate, that both of us were caught completely off-guard by the events that took place next. For as we rode through a patch of woodland, there was a sudden loud bang. The sound of a gun being fired. And in our direction. Both of the horses whinnied loudly, spooking, terrified at the suddenness of the loud noise. Mine reared up, and as much as I hang on for dear life, I felt myself slipping from the animals back. The horse righted itself, and bucked, hard, and I lost my battle to stay aboard, falling sideways to the ground, and lying in amongst the horses' trampling feet.

Holmes, meanwhile, had had an altogether more fortunate time of it, and on his horses' first rear, had managed to grab hold of an overhanging branch and swing himself off of the horses' back. He had then got to work trying to calm the scared beast, whispering to it in an undertone. Seeing my distress, he made his way over to my horse, and between us, we managed to calm the poor creature.

"Dear heavens" I said, when tragedy had been averted. "That was close."

"Indeed, it was. Too close. You do realise what happened?"

"We were shot at."

"Yes."

"And by a person aiming to miss."

"Indeed, for here we are in a valley. Any person could have the advantage of us here, and shoot, accurately and to kill."

"We should perhaps get out of the open."

"Indeed, I believe it would be advisable for the two of us to make our way to the sanctuary of Morton Manor."

"I agree."

We made to mount our horses again when I noticed something white lying on the floor. It looked like a slip of paper. And on the outside was a name. Sherlock Holmes.

"Holmes." I said, "Look at this."

I held up the letter, and Holmes took it, examined it, and then unfolded it to read the letter's content.

"What is it?" I asked.

Holmes said nothing for a minute, before saying, "It is nothing, Watson."

"Nothing? But that could be the reason…an indication as to why someone just tried to injure us. And it could be important to the case…"

"I assure you, it has nothing to do with the present matter. It is just a little reminder from a certain gentleman."

"Holmes…"

"Do you trust me, Watson?"

"Implicitly."

"Then please, I assure you, this letter tells me nothing I did not already know. Please respect my word, Watson. I promise, it is nothing of which you need worry."

"Holmes, for heavens sake!"

"Watson…" Something in Holmes' demeanour made me drop my attempts to coerce him into divulging the contents of the letter. I trusted him. And if he assured me that the letter was of no matter, I supposed that I must respect his privacy. Although, I believe now that I know the identity of the person who sent the letter. Professor Moriarty, haunting Holmes like a demon. Always ready to step in at the smallest mistake and strike. That letter must have contained a threat? An ultimatum? I can only guess. But whatever it was, I tried to forget it.

We re-mounted, and made our way along the road to Morton Manor.


	10. At Morton Manor

**Normal Disclaimers.**

**Chapter 9**

_**Watson**_

We reached the Manor quickly, our own unease making us spur the horses on. We were met outside the house by two groomsmen, and the butler, Trevelyann, together with a couple of footmen, who took our bags. The house was as imposing as always, although in the late-summer morning, with the sun shining sleepily through the woodlands opposite the house, it looked rather more beautiful than it had done the first time we saw it a couple of Christmas' ago. Even the rather horrible looking gargoyles looked a little happier.

"Good Morning, gentlemen," said Trevelyann. "Welcome back to Morton Manor."

"Thank you, Trevelyann," said Holmes. "Is Lord Throckmorton around?"

"His Lordship and most of the rest of the family are awaiting your arrival in the lounge, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson."

We started to walk towards the front door. "How are they?" I asked.

"Distraught, Doctor."

"And the children?"

"Sir Jeremy and Lady Kitty are at school, sir. The younger children have been sent to the house of Major Edward's sister."

"Good," said Holmes, and we entered the house.

There was no denying the changes that had taken place since the last time we were here. Two years ago, the house had been the domain of the old Lord Throckmorton, a domineering and tyrannical man, the father of Meredith and her siblings and one of the most evil and unpleasant men I have ever met. After the man met his death, the lands and title passed to Meredith's eldest brother, Marcus and his wife Gwendolyn, who, together with their little girl, Cora and the two youngest Throckmorton children, Kitty and Jeremy, lived in Morton Manor. After that fateful Christmas the house was gutted of all that reminded the family of their previous lives there, and was refurbished. Indeed, now the house looked beautiful. The walls were various pastel shades, together with floral wallpaper. The furniture was mostly oak, rather than the dark mahogany that had been in place previously. Extra windows had been put in, and old ones had been cleaned and re-curtained.

We entered the lounge, which, rather than being centred around the imposing fire, was instead set out with the beautiful large bay-window facing the Estate's lake, as the main focus of attention. The new, pale blue couches were positioned in the centre of the room, around a large oak table with a huge selection of flowers on it.

Despite the loveliness of the room, there was, inevitably, a tension as we entered. The occupants stood - Lord Marcus Throckmorton and his wife Lady Gwendolyn - who, I was pleased to note looked much happier than the last time we had met, and who looked much healthier - she had put on some weight, her skin was healthier, and of a more rosy complexion. Also present was Meredith's sister, Jane and her husband Major Edward - who was obviously not indulging in alcohol as freely as previously, Gregory and Meredith's eighteen-year-old brother, Ralph, who stood dressed in an army uniform. The last person present was a woman of about twenty-five, with light brown hair, and a pleasing countenance. She was not traditionally beautiful, but there was something in her eyes which spoke of good humour and intelligence. She was introduced to us as Gregory's fiancée, Miss Amelia Grendall. We were waved to seats and Marcus spoke up. "I want to thank the both of you for what you have done so far."

"That is quite alright," I said, but Holmes sighed impatiently.

"The letter, Throckmorton! The letter! What was it?"

Marcus' eyebrows rose, but nodded. I fixed Holmes with a glare, which he tried to ignore. "Ralph," he said, "Give Mr Holmes the letter."

Holmes motioned to me, "Watson usually reads these things…Watson?"

The young man passed the letter to me, and I began to read it out loud. "_My dear brother, This letter will most probably reach you in circumstances which have meant my indisposition, disappearance or death. I know this sounds rather melodramatic, but I am sure of the danger I am in. I have ensured that this is sent to you because you know the importance of all this. Over the last few weeks, I have been researching the 'Throckmorton Treasure'. The information enclosed will help you on your way to finding it. You are, of course, able to do what you wish with it, but please remember that it has brought nothing but destruction to our family. I am eternally yours, brother, all my love, Meredith._" As I finished, I looked up. Gwendolyn and Jane were sitting, eyes gleaming. Ralph had stood, and was pacing the floor by the window.

"I take it the information is a riddle?" Holmes said.

Marcus, Gregory and Jane all looked hard at Holmes, in disbelief. "How do you know…?" asked Gregory.

"Your sister's diary."

"I see," said Marcus. He put his hand in his pocket, and extracted a piece of paper. He stood, and gave it to me. The writing on this paper was somehow different. Whilst the letter had been in Meredith's handwriting, the riddle was in another hand altogether.

Holmes leant over my shoulder, and said, "I deduce from the familial tendencies of similarity in the handwriting, that this was written by some ancestor of yours?"

"Our great-grandmother," said Jane quickly.

"Watson…"

I nodded, "Very well - _To find the treasure, the seeker must go to: The house of God in the Place of our fathers, The figure of our famous ancestor, The ruin of the house of our past, A book in The City of the Dreaming Spires, The Bridge over the River of Death._"

"I think," said Holmes, "That you should tell us a little more of this riddle - and of the 'Throckmorton Treasure'. Please be precise as to details, as they might be the thing that helps us find your little sister."

Marcus nodded "Very well. The Throckmorton treasure is somewhat of a family legend. Around two hundred years ago, one of our ancestors committed treason against the monarch. You see, our family, until relatively recently, have been Catholic. During the reign of James I, our direct ancestor's younger brother, Sir Alexander Throckmorton, was one of the aristocratic minds behind the plan to blow up the Houses of Parliament. He was arrested for treason and executed. His elder brother, fearing retribution upon himself, hid the treasures he had accumulated which were of Catholic design or due to rewards he had won for helping to uphold the Catholic faith."

"And the riddle?" I asked, "That seems a little more recent."

"It is. The holders of the keys to the chamber, wherever it may be, have always, traditionally been women. Our great-grandmother realised that her son - our father's father - was becoming more tyrannical, and cruel as time went on. So she decided to hide the treasure - for only the holder of the key really knew where it was - their husbands or brothers or sons, knowing only too well the curse that owning the treasure brought down on the people who held it. My great-grandmother realised that after his father's death, the son would undoubtedly try and take possession of the treasure, so she devised the riddle. On her death, she passed it to our grandmother and she to our sister, though before her death, I think."

"And your sister has been recently working on solving the riddle…" said Holmes.

"I do not think for one moment that Meredith wished to have possession of our family treasure. I think she just wished to find out where it was…"

"Besides," I said "If Meredith believed herself targeted because she held the key to the location, then she might feel that she needed to know the whereabouts of the treasure."

Holmes sighed, "This all sounds rather too much like a child's story, Watson."

"Nevertheless," said Gregory, heatedly "It has led to the disappearance of my sister."

Holmes nodded, "Have you tried to solve the riddle yet?"

"We have been somewhat preoccupied." Marcus snapped at Holmes, before sighing "Sorry…"

"We quite understand, Lord Throckmorton," I said.

"Indeed," Holmes sounded rather disinterested, and I shook my head. He really could be decidedly dense. "Now, the first part '_The house of God in the Place of our fathers_', is easy - I would suggest that as Morton Manor is the Family Seat of your family, the chapel in the village is the answer to that part of the riddle. The second part is more your part than mine, Throckmorton. I cannot claim to have made an in-depth study of your familial lines. The third sentence - '_The Ruin of the House of our past'_ is, I suggest, a house which was sold by your family sometime in the past, and which has gone to ruin."

"The fourth part," I said, proudly, I had to admit, "'_A book in the City of Dreaming Spires'_ is a book, in Oxford, which is usually known as 'The City of Dreaming Spires'. Perhaps in one of the larger University libraries?"

"Oh, very good, Watson," said Holmes, warmly "I knew that that romantic streak of yours would come in useful one day…"

"I will ignore the sarcasm in that statement, Holmes. I know how difficult it will be to find one book - let alone one library, in the whole of Oxford."

"As to the fifth clue…" said Holmes "I am afraid that I am somewhat halted in my suppositions."

"Yes," said Marcus, "I cannot say anything springs to mind."

"But," said Gregory "For the second clue - _'The figure of our famous ancestor'_ I do have the answer. You see, during the time of Queen Elizabeth, our ancestor, Lady Elizabeth Throckmorton, was one of the chief ladies-in-waiting to the Queen. Without the Queen's permission, she shortly after married Sir Walter Raleigh, the famous sailor, or perhaps pirate would be the more accurate description. There is a statue of Sir Walter at my house in Exeter. It was put up around one hundred years ago - when our great-grandmother was alive."

"Good," said Holmes. "And the ruin?"

"There are several," said Marcus, who had risen, and rung the bell. Trevelyann entered, and Marcus handed him a key "Trevelyann, I need you to get the book of deeds from my office."

Trevelyann nodded, and exited the room. The rest of us sat in barely concealed excitement, until the butler returned, bearing a huge, brown book. Marcus received it, and opened it. A plume of dust shot up, and made him cough. He started to flick through the book, before handing it to Holmes, who flicked through it again, and then let out a "Ha!" of triumph.

"Here," he said, "Rothington House, Cornwall. Around four hundred years ago, it was sold by your family, and was never refurbished by whoever bought it. It is still a ruin to this day."

"What do you suggest we do?" asked Ralph, his voice enthusiastic. "Where do we go."

"I would suggest that for now, we concentrate on finding the first four keys, if they have not been found by whoever abducted your sister. It may be that he needs her to solve one of the clues, and that we will find her at one of the first four sites."

"I agree," said Marcus, "That seems to me the most sensible suggestion."

"Very well. I suggest that Lady Gwendolyn, Miss Amelia and Lady Jane go to the chapel, Sir Ralph and Major Edward to the house in Exeter, You, Lord Marcus and Sir Gregory to the old house in Cornwall, and Watson and I to Oxford."

"An eminently sensible suggestion. We will do as you say."

Everyone rose, and Marcus extended a hand to Holmes. "Thank you, Holmes."

"It is quite alright, Throckmorton. I have to admit that your case has piqued my interest."

Marcus smiled, then turned to his family "On we go, then."

Holmes looked at me. "To Oxford, Watson, there is a train in an hour from the station at Cambridge. Come, old man. The game's afoot."

I groaned "You have been reading my stories again, haven't you?"


	11. James Dimsdale

**Hi! Thank you to everyone who has read this! On to the next chapter, although I would like to apologise in advance if there are any wrong spellings - the backspace button on my laptop has stopped working properly, and so sometimes it doesn't delete what I want it to delete (annoying!)**

**Normal Disclaimers Apply.**

**Chapter 10**

_**Meredith**_

It is a strange feeling to regain consciousness after a period of time. In some ways, it feels all like a dream…like perhaps if you pinch yourself, you will awaken and find yourself in a warm bed. In other ways, there is a kind of relief, that at last something - anything! - is happening. To awake in a sitting position is perhaps the most disorientating - as you really do have no idea how you got there. Was it under your own strength or due to someone else's? I awoke sat upright in a chair, completely confused and unaware of what was going on. I was more or less conscious that I was tied to the chair, and that there was an inordinate amount of dried blood on my dress, but that was about it.

It took me a couple of minutes to 'come to', as it were. As I did so, I became more aware of what was actually going on. I had been sat in a high-backed chair, and tied tightly to it with ropes. My forearm, which was visible, was dotted with needle marks - more than there had been the last time I woke up. The blood was from a head wound, which I thought, and hoped, was probably superficial. Head wounds always do bleed rather a lot. I rested my head on the back of the chair and was confronted with a pair of blue eyes. A man with a large black beard and oh, so familiar blue eyes.

"Good Morning," he said, his tone pleasant, but there was malice in his eyes.

I groaned, and said quietly "Who are you?"

"Just a friend, little one."

"I think that very unlikely. What do you want with me?"

"I think you already know. The riddle."

"You won't have it…"

"Oh, my dear. You misunderstand me. I already have the riddle."

"What? But - how?"

"I will tell you later, my precious. The more important thing is that I wish you to help me…"

"I really don't think so."

"Oh, do you not? For I have no qualms about worsening your injuries. In fact, I would find it most enjoyable."

My composure slipped for barely a moment, and I stared at him, horrified. I quickly schooled my face into indifference, but I was aware that the man had seen my slip. I tried to control the shake in my voice when I spoke, but found it rather difficult. I don't think I succeeded. "Tell me your name."

He smiled. "My name is Dimsdale. James Dimsdale."

Something awoke within me - a memory? "Dimsdale…"

"Ah, I see you recognise the name."

"There was a maid…she left shortly after mother died…"

"Yes…"

The man was encouraging me onwards with my remembrances. He wanted me to extract the memory from the far reaches of my brain. A time I had always wanted to forget. "She had a son…he was at school all the time."

"I, my dear. Your father paid my tuition. Paid to send me away. For obvious reasons really. When a child is young, the similarities are less conspicuous. But when he grows up…"

I stared at him, and it came to me. Why had I not seen it before? The beard, the eyes, the malevolence. My father…was his father.

"I was born shortly before your elder brother, my lady." He spoke the title with malice, and hatred. "Your father kept me as a stable lad until I was ten, before sending me away. Although, I do believe that I am more the son he would have wanted than any of your brothers. Except perhaps Gregory. I have heard that he has a bit of a temper on him…"

"You will not say a word about my family…"

"Ah, but I am your family…"

I could not keep the disgusted grimace from my face. "I very much doubt that."

Dimsdale growled, but said nothing. "Now, I have the answers to the first three of your clues. It is the last two. The City of Dreaming Spires is easy enough. But where?"

"Where did you get the riddle?" I asked, wanting to delay the subject of the answer for as long as possible. "I have the only copy…"

"My mother was a very stupid woman. But she was curious. One day when she was cleaning your room shortly after your tenth birthday, she found the bible, and dropped it, meaning that the riddle fell from the back cover. She copied it, before replacing the sheaf of paper and sealing it. Which, I think, was why you did not find it until much later than your grandmother wished you to."

"So…you want the treasure. And you decided to kidnap me to find the answers. May I ask who your accomplice was?"

"His name was Maurice Henderson. An old school friend. A bomb-maker, actually."

"And did you plan to kill my friend and the child, or was that a spur of the moment action?" I sneered at him, and he scowled loathingly at me. For some reason, I had the earnest desire to infuriate him.

"If the child had not screamed, and the woman not run back, they would not have died."

"How charitable."

"The answers, blast you!"

"Never." I looked him in the eye, delighting in the way that just like father when he was angry, his face changed colour. He struck me, hard, across the face, but I said nothing.

Dimsdale looked about to rage at me, but at the last moment, his face changed. "I do have one more point of leverage, my dear. I know your little secret. I know the truth about the death of your father. I know it was little Jeremy."

I felt my eyes widen, as cold fear wrapped itself around my heart. "How? How do you know?" I cried.

"A maid of yours, Elizabeth. The one who was working for the 'Queen of the Underworld'. Erica Montjoy. I take it your friend Holmes told you of that little organisation?"

"Yes."

"I worked with Erica for some time. I ran a couple of her brothels, her gambling den…in fact, it was I who shot at you at your lecture last October."

I stared at him, the terror becoming more intense.

"Elizabeth told me all. Tell me what you know of the fourth clue. Or else I shall tell everyone of the crime your dear little brother committed. He will go to prison, perhaps even be hanged. It will ruin the reputation of your family, and you will be known as an accessory to murder. And your poor dear friends, Mr Holmes and Dr Watson will be revealed as helping to cover-up a murder. They will probably go to prison, and both will be ruined. It is your choice. Them, or the treasure?"

It was not a hard decision to make. But I hated myself as I nodded, and he grinned in triumph.


	12. The Bodleian Library

**Still have a problem with my backspace key - really annoying! So, sorry for any glaring errors. Enjoy!**

**Normal Disclaimers.**

**Chapter 11**

_**Watson**_

The train journey to Oxford took a relatively short time to complete, and well before lunchtime, we had alighted from the train and walked the half-mile into the centre of the city. Oxford is undoubtedly one of the most beautiful cities in England, if not the world. The skyline is full of the spires of churches, the cathedral and various University buildings. The river Isis flows through the city, and students, residents and visitors alike punt along it, like Italian Gondoliers in Venice. The city boasts some of the most beautiful buildings and beautiful scenery I have ever seen. To be honest, for the slightest moment, I forgot the reason for our sojourn to Oxford, and was swept away by being in such a city as this.

Holmes, however, who was not so susceptible to romantic meanderings as I am, never relaxed, his back straight, and his eyes darting, like a predator on the hunt. The fact that he was an undergraduate at Cambridge University may also have prompted his indifference. The ancient competitiveness between the two universities means that both argue their city to be more beautiful or awe-inspiring.

But Holmes was right. We had to get back to the matter in hand. "Well, Holmes…" I said, "Which library do you think the man means?"

Holmes stood still, as if trying to remember something. "From what I remember of Oxford - it has, after all, been some time since my last trip here - there are a number of libraries - Merton, Hooke, Radcliffe, Christ Church…"

"But," I interrupted, "It will be like trying to find a needle in a haystack! All those libraries - so many books! Some in the basement stores rather than on the shelves. How are we to…?"

"I would suggest that we use a process of elimination, to make the search more expedient. Now… the Merton College Library is difficult to get into, as well as the fact that a hundred years ago, it would have been impossible for a female to gain entry, much less to slip something into one of the books. The Hooke and Radcliffe libraries are both science-based libraries, and I would suggest that like Meredith, her great-grandmother had more a natural disposition towards the arts, so it is unlikely she would have secreted anything there. After all, it is not the act of a scientific mind to write a riddle and set up what is, on a basic level, a treasure hunt."

"The Christ Church Library is a possibility." I said, "It is both accessible more or less to the general public, and contains a large number of books on the Arts and the Classics."

"Hmm…" mused Holmes. "There is one library I have not mentioned. The Bodleian Library is the largest in Oxford, with the largest collection of books…"

"Do you think it may be there?"

"I think it would be the most natural place."

I sighed, "The largest library in Oxford… It will take us years to find just one book…"

"I may have some ideas," Holmes said, mysteriously. Come Watson! Onwards!"

"Honestly, Holmes! Must you keep me perpetually in the dark?"

"Come on, old man. All will be revealed."

I sighed, and followed him as he started to walk quickly through the busy city streets, making his way toward the imposing façade of the Bodleian Library. It is true to say that perhaps with the exception of the British Museum, the Bodleian Library is one of the most spectacular buildings dedicated to study in the whole country. The huge Oak front door, resplendent with the Coats of Arms of several Oxford Colleges strikes awe into the casual observer. But today, there was something different about the street outside the library.

A large group of people seemed to be gathering around the front door. Some were academics and students in smart clothing and gowns. Others were passers-by and came from all walks of life - from the lowest street urchin, with determined looks on their faces, to the highest lady in lovely gowns and impressive hats. The doors were being guarded by a large number of policemen - about ten or twelve in all - who were trying desperately to hold the people back from their determined efforts to get closer to whatever was happening. Holmes and I glanced at each other, and started to push through the crowds. A couple of the gentlemen glared at us, as we pushed by, but soon enough, we were at the front of the crowd, and Holmes addressed the sergeant on duty. "I say, my good man, what is going on here?"

"The library has been evacuated, sir."

Before Holmes could get us into trouble by snapping that he had already deduced that, I asked "What has happened?"

"We were summoned by a runner, who brought reports that a man is holding a young woman hostage in the library. Apparently, he has a gun."

"Look here," said Holmes. "My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend and colleague, Dr John Watson. The young woman is the sister of the present Earl of Ravensmead, who has been abducted. It is imperative that we enter the building."

"I'm sorry, sir."

"But…"

"I am afraid that it is more than my job's worth, sir."

"Now you listen…"

"Holmes!" I said, and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him away through the crowds to a clearing. "You will do us no good by attacking the policeman."

Holmes sighed, then visibly brightened. "There is a back door to the library, is there not? I cannot believe that these bumbling dolts of policemen will have that covered…come, Watson."

We quickly skirted the outer limits of the building, until we came to the small door - the door to the School of Moral Philosophy - that Holmes had mentioned. As he had correctly predicted, the door was locked, but not guarded, and a quick turn with his lock-picks was all that he needed to open the door. "The University," I muttered "Will not be pleased with you, Holmes, for breaking their door."

"Ah well, needs must."

I smiled, and we both pulled revolvers out of our pockets, and moved stealthily into the darkened interior of the school. It was relatively small, and it was not long until we had made our way into the centre of the library. "Well…" I whispered. "Where do we start? Finding Meredith?"

Holmes nodded, and we started to creep towards the stairs leading to the reading rooms. All of a sudden, there was a scream - a woman's scream, and a crash, and the sound of a man's voice cursing.

"The Basement," Holmes whispered, and beckoned me towards a set of stairs leading downwards. We started down, Holmes going ahead, I behind. My leg was throbbing slightly, but I was close on my friend's heels. As we walked, I heard the sound of a low whimper of pain, and was sure that it was Meredith. I felt my blood boil. How dare he treat a lady in such a manner. God knows what he had done to her. I felt Holmes stiffen as well. We reached the bottom of the stairs and crept into the large basement. It was full of shelves and stacks of books, as far as the eye can see. The cries came from a shack of bookcases on the far side of the cavernous basement. As quickly and quietly as possible, we moved to hide behind a bookcase, where we could see exactly what was happening.

A man, with a black beard and strangely intense blue eyes, and wearing a long black coat, was standing by the bookcase. In one hand was a gun. The other arm he had wrapped around the waist of Meredith. She looked terrible. She had obviously been hurt, and badly, for the man looked as though he was holding her up. Her face was bruised, her arm at an odd angle - dislocated, from the look of it. She was whimpering, her face glistening with tears. "Now, now, then, my pretty" said the man "Where is the book? We have got as far as the library…"

"I won't tell you…"

"Another beating, perhaps?" said the fellow, and it took all my might to hold back from attacking the awful man. I looked over at Holmes to see disgust and anger written plainly on his face. It looked as though if he got hold of the blackguard, he would beat him to within an inch of his life.

"No…" Meredith groaned, her voice low. But she obviously had more spark in her than we, or indeed her captor had realised, because she made a fairly concerted effort to be rid of the man, and managed to hit him squarely across the face as she did so, making the man curse and splutter. Losing his bearings for a moment, Meredith almost managed to shake off his grasp, but he caught her by the arm as she fled, and pulled her back towards him, striking her across the face.

This was the last straw for both of us. If there is one thing a gentleman could never stand, it is wilful violence against any lady, able to defend herself or no. Holmes and I emerged from behind the bookshelf, our guns pointed at the man. Although there was no way to get a clear shot at him as he held Meredith against him, like a shield. The girl looked up at us through pain-dimmed eyes and a wave of relief seemed to come over her features.

"Let her go," said Holmes, his voice hard and angry. "And give yourself up."

"Mr Holmes, I presume? And Dr Watson. James Dimsdale. A pleasure to meet you."

"I did not come here," said Holmes, "To swap pleasantries with you. The girl. Now."

"You want her, Holmes?" The man spoke confidently, but I was sure he was ruffled. He seemed to be shooting glances around as to the safest way to exit the basement, without being in range of our fire.

All of a sudden, sooner than either of us had expected, the blackguard pushed the young woman away from him, towards Holmes. Holmes seemed to hesitate for only a second, before leaping forward to catch the girl, who by this time was near unconscious. As quick as a cat, Dimsdale rushed behind a bookcase as my bullet bounced off it. I ran after him, and to my horror, saw the huge bookcase begin to lurch towards me. I fell back, meaning that Dimsdale got a clear get away. I was about to pursue, when I heard Holmes' voice behind me.

"Watson! We will deal with him later… Meredith needs your attention."

I ran back towards Holmes. He was kneeling next to where the girl lay, only just conscious. I knelt on her other side, and started to doctor her wounds as best I could with only my jacket and the contents of my pockets at my disposal. Meredith was muttering something, and I placed a hand on her shoulder. "Hush, Child. Quiet now."

My words seemed to have the adverse affect, as the girl suddenly reached out and grabbed Holmes' lapel in a tight grip. "Matthew Arnold…"

"What?" I looked at Holmes in puzzlement, but his face lit with understanding.

"The book?" he said gently, "One of his?"

Meredith nodded, then seemed to completely collapse. Her breathing eased, and she fell asleep. Holmes looked down at her, a look of concern on his face, then touched her shoulder just once, before standing, and making his way to the bookshelf. "Dimsdale was so near," he muttered. On saying this, he pulled out old, ragged book at the back of the shelf - The Poetry of Matthew Arnold. The man who had coined the phrase Dreaming Spires. Holmes opened it. Inside, the book was hollowed out. And there was a great golden key.

* * *

**OK, yes there is one historical inaccuracy here - I am so irritated, but otherwise, I will have to go back and rewrite the whole story. The poet Matthew Arnold wrote his poetry around fifty years from 1890, not one hundred (so Meredith's great-grandmother would not have known about Oxford being the 'City of Dreaming Spires'), so a little artistic licence there! Oh, and in case it's important, I don't own Arnold's poetry. **


	13. Clues and Keys

**Normal Disclaimers**

**Chapter 12**

_**Watson**_

Our departure from the library was not without incident, for it is difficult to successfully carry an unconscious girl from the scene of a crime without arousing question. It took us some time to fight our way through crowds of onlookers, be scolded by a rather irate sergeant, and accosted by a fair few doctors who wanted to know if the lady was quite alright. In the end, Holmes, who was carrying Meredith whilst I cleared a path through the crowd, lost his temper, and stormed through the crowds, stepping on people's feet, and generally causing an uproar. Unfortunately, he left me behind, leaving me to apologise for his actions, as well as the damage he had caused to a good many people's shoes. Eventually, I extracted myself from the fracas, and found that Holmes had engaged a cab to take us the short distance to the station.

I entered, and sat next to Holmes. He had laid Meredith on the seat opposite, and had removed his Inverness and covered her over with it. She was still asleep or unconscious, and I checked her pulse - a little slow, but steady. "She'll be alright" I said, quietly. "I say, Holmes, did you have to leave me to the mercy of that crowd? The number of men complaining and despairing of the company I keep…"

"Well, I had to secure us a cab…"

"You needn't have been so rude about it! One of those elderly gentlemen had gout, and you stepped on his foot! It would have been very painful…"

"Well, that should be a lesson to him against overindulgence, should it not?"

"Holmes…"

"I refuse to apologise to a gentleman who would have been able to get out of the way quicker if it were not for his own folly."

"Hush…" I said, as Meredith groaned quietly, and clutched her ribs, as the carriage went over a bump.

"Broken?" asked Holmes.

"One cracked, I should say. Nothing more. Her shoulder, however, is dislocated. It will be alright in a sling for a moment, but once we get back on the train, I should really try to replace it in the socket."

"Not a particularly pleasant job."

"Needs to be done."

"Anything else?"

"Cuts and bruises to hands, face, throat. I'll know more when I can examine her closer at Morton Manor."

Holmes nodded, and the carriage drew into the forecourt of the station. He disembarked, and I helped to ease Meredith gently out of the carriage, then paid the cab fare. Holmes passed her to me, before striding off to buy our tickets. Meanwhile, I made my way towards the train, was met by Holmes at the ticket gate, and helped to get Meredith on the train. Luckily, since it was only about one o'clock, the train was more or less empty, which made our search for a free compartment much easier. We placed Meredith on one of the long seats, and rather reluctantly, awakened her.

"My lady?" I said, quietly, shaking her gently. "Meredith?"

The young woman's eyes opened, and for a moment, she seemed to panic before fixing her eyes on us and relaxing slightly. "Did you get it?" she asked, her voice hoarse.

"The key?" asked Holmes, "Yes, we did."

Meredith nodded, and Holmes placed a hand on her arm, whilst I took hold of one of her hands. "Lady Meredith?"

Meredith turned her eyes to me, and smiled quickly "I think after this, you could dismiss the prefix, Doctor."

I nodded, then said "Meredith, your arm is dislocated. I need to return it to it's proper position."

The girl's eyes clouded with fear and uncertainty for a moment, before nodding. I turned to Holmes. "Take hold of her shoulders." He nodded, and after hesitating for the merest of moments, took hold of Meredith's shoulders in a strong grip. I took my place at her side, one hand in hers, which she held onto tightly, the other on the top of her forearm. With one quick, fluid motion, I pushed the bone back into it's socket. Meredith yelped in pain, then bit down hard on her lip, causing it to bleed. Tears poured down her face, and her skin flushed red with embarrassment, and pain. I patted her hand softly, and muttered "It's alright…good girl…"

Meanwhile, Holmes pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and handed it to her. She took it from him, and used it to stem the trickle of blood from her lower lip. Much to my surprise, he then placed a hand on her forehead for a short moment, before saying softly "Get some sleep, Meredith. We will wake you when we arrive in Cambridge."

Meredith nodded, and fell back onto the seat. Softly, she said "Thank you," before closing her eyes and drifting off into the arms of Morpheus. Sleep is, after all, a wonderful healer.

Holmes and I did not talk much on the journey, for fear of awakening our charge. I admit, that I too fell asleep on the journey, and only woke up when my friend nudged me in the ribs. "We are about five minutes from Cambridge, Watson. We had best wake Meredith up."

I nodded, and moved over to place a hand on Meredith's arm. "Meredith? It is time to wake up. I am sorry."

She seemed a little stronger, and managed to raise herself into a sitting position, pulling Holmes' Inverness closer around her shoulders. Indeed, she did look much healthier - with a better colour in her cheeks, and more of a sparkle in her eyes. I re-tied the sling around her arm, and with a little help from Holmes, she was able to stand and alight from the train. We decided that it would be easier for us to commandeer a carriage, seeing as the train to the outlying villages like King's Morton seemed more than a little busy, and so managed to hail a four-wheeler. Upon learning that we were going to Morton Manor, and upon sighting Lady Meredith, the cabbie whipped the horses into a gallop, so that it was not long until we were driving through the village, and up to the house.

When we reached the house, there was a great rush of activity, as the butler, footmen and Jane, Gwendolyn and Amelia all rushed out to meet us. The butler took care of paying the cab driver, who was rewarded handsomely for getting us to Morton Manor so speedily, whilst the footmen came quickly to aid Meredith in alighting from the carriage. She was then set upon by her sister, sister-in-law and soon to be sister-in-law, who all bustled around her, commenting on how terribly ill she looked. Meredith sent us a pleading glance, which made me chuckle, as we all walked up the steps into the house.

The girl was hurried off quickly with Trevelyann and Gwendolyn, and we were left with the heartfelt gratitude of Jane and Amelia. "Thank you so much to you both, gentlemen" said Jane, tearfully. "You will never know what a relief it is to have Meredith back at home. We are all eternally grateful."

Holmes nodded graciously. I offered my services to treat the girl, but was kindly refused, and told instead to relax and have a drink. And so, we sat in the living room for at least three hours, whilst Holmes visibly became more and more frustrated with the lack of action. He, of course, could do nothing - he understood as well as anyone that Meredith needed to rest after her ordeal, but after Gwendolyn came down a little after Meredith's departure upstairs and said that the girl was sleeping, there was very little we could do. We were informed by Lady Gwendolyn that both Marcus and Gregory and Ralph and Edward would be back at around lunchtime the next day. All we could do was wait.

I must admit that I was quite resigned to having to wait until the next day to talk to Lady Meredith, and so was rather shocked when the girl entered the room at about eight o'clock. Holmes and I rose, and she smiled at us, looking much better. Her elder sister fussed around her, upbraiding her for getting up so early, but Holmes looked surprisingly happy and eager as he guided Meredith to a chair. She winched a little at his touch on her shoulder, but otherwise looked vastly better. "I could not stay asleep any longer - I have done far too much of that over the last couple of days. And anyway, I do believe Mr Holmes is anxious for news of Dimsdale and the treasure…" She grinned as she said the last part, and Holmes smiled quickly back, before sitting back into his chair, and half closing his eyes.

"I wish to know about the treasure. I take it you came into possession of the map on your tenth birthday?"

"Yes, but I did not find it until later. You read the journal then? Ah, come, gentlemen, I am not angry…in fact I rather thought you would. I did not notice the maps and such before due to the fact that Dimsdale's mother, who was a maid at the Manor, and who stole the riddle for him, suck the book back together in such a way to make it harder to find." She turned to her family members, and then said "Er…perhaps I should tell you…Dimsdale - the man who abducted me, and who has the duplicates of the riddle - is our brother."

"What?" Jane looked dumbstruck. The other two looked too shocked to talk "Our brother?"

"You remember the maid, Dimsdale?"

"Molly, I believe her name was."

"Father…erm…well, she became pregnant…erm…anyway, he is quite recognisably father's son."

"I thought so," said Holmes quietly, "The drawings that you left us showed quite closely the similarities between your father and the man that followed you."

"Indeed. You should also know that Dimsdale was the man that shot at me during the lecture last year."

"Then he was an agent of Montjoy…and so, I would presume, somewhat acquainted with Professor Moriarty."

Meredith and her family, who did not know who the Professor was glanced at each other, but said nothing.

"He has three of the keys to the treasure store. But they will be useless without the fourth key."

"I see. So Dimsdale will need it, by the end. He will not be gone long." I said. "Mrs Simmons, Lady Throckmorton, perhaps your children and younger siblings should be removed to a place of security. If Dimsdale was able to use Meredith in his plan, I am sure that he would not baulk at using them."

The women shivered, but Gwendolyn's chin went up, and she said "It will be done. I shall send all the children to a place of safety. I will go and tell Trevelyann."

We rose as she left the room, and then returned to our seats. "Now," said Holmes, "The River of Death - the place where the treasure is buried. Where is it?"

Meredith shook her head. "I don't know, Holmes."

"Does Dimsdale know about it?"

"That is the problem," said Meredith, "Dimsdale might. He is cleverer than father, and has a real hatred towards all of us. And there is another problem. He knows about Jeremy's part in father's death, as well as our efforts to cover it up. And," she turned to me, then back to Holmes "He says that he will ruin you."

Holmes studied her for a moment, then made a confident, disbelieving noise. "I should like to see him try." He looked at the occupants of the room, "Let us find this melodramatically named 'River of Death'. The sooner we do, the sooner Watson can put it in a highly romanticised and exaggerated narrative for the masses."


	14. The River of Death

**Sorry for this rather short…and slightly depressing...chapter!**

**Normal Disclaimers Apply**

**Chapter 13**

_**Watson**_

"Now," said Holmes. "The next clue. My Lady Jane, are you aware of any answers to the last part of the riddle?"

The woman shook her head. "I am afraid not, Mr Holmes. I cannot think where it could be."

Holmes stood, and started to pace the floor in front of the fire, his hand on his chin. I watched him, then my eye was caught by something just beyond him. A large painted picture hanging over the fireplace. The painting was of a large grey-stone castle, among the highland hills of Scotland. In front of the castle was a large body of water - a loch or…river. "Holmes!" I said, excitedly.

He turned to me, puzzled. "Watson?"

"The painting!" I pointed at it. Holmes turned and surveyed it, then let out a cry of triumph. "Ha!" He turned to Meredith and Jane. "This castle…where is it?"

The two women exchanged glances, then Jane said, "The Castle. Yes…"

She seemed strangely reluctant to continue, and Holmes looked at her closely, then shifted his gaze to Meredith. Under his stern gaze she squirmed but a little, then sighed. "It is not a pleasant story."

"I did not suppose it to be. When two young ladies both sit shooting glances at each other and looking decidedly uncomfortable, there is something unpleasant to be told. But for the sake of your family, you must tell us." The last sentence Holmes spoke quietly, almost sympathetically.

Meredith nodded. To my distress, Jane started to cry. I got up, and walked over to her, handing her my handkerchief. Meanwhile, Gwendolyn had returned and was looking in confusion from Meredith to Jane. "What on earth…?" She began to say, but was stopped by a look from Holmes.

"Go on, Meredith" my friend said, and the girl met his eyes for barely a moment, before turning to the fire, and addressing all further speech to the fireplace.

"When we were small, our parents used to take us to the Castle on holiday. It is the family seat of the Duke of Kintyre. The former Duke, Lord Kirkpatrick, who was father's friend, and who died six years ago, used to invite us to the castle for weeks at a time. The castle is in a particularly remote part of the highlands, twenty or thirty miles from any village or town. Indeed, the friendship between our families is of almost an ancient nature - our great-grandmother was of the family, and her grandmother, and others as well. But there has always been a dark legend attached to the river outside the castle. Hundreds of years ago, a great wind came up on the river, and flooded the castle, killing the Duke, the servants…"

"And have there been other deaths since then?" I asked, curiously.

Meredith sighed. "A few. Servants who have gone rowing on the river and disappeared, one of the former Duke's brothers went fishing and did not return…"

"Why did you not tell us of this before? Surely it was completely obvious to you that the 'River of Death' was at this castle?" Holmes' voice rose. He does not suffer fools gladly, and indeed, to him, this was the epitome of foolishness, to not see something so plain and simple. I also believed that there maybe something more in his distress. He was disappointed in the girl? Disappointed that she could miss so obvious a clue because of her feminine sensibilities?

"Holmes…" the girl said quietly. "It honestly did not occur to me that that could be it. I know it seems unintelligent, but perhaps if I tell you…you will see why I have tried so hard to forget it."

Holmes seemed unconvinced, but he nodded, and sat. "You know, of course, that our mother died when I was eleven, from a fall down the stairs. What is not common knowledge - indeed, I believe only Marcus, Gregory, Jane, Ralph and I know of it, is that my mother was pregnant when she fell."

"Pregnant?" I was surprised, and disgusted. From what we had seen of the father of the Throckmortons, it was completely obvious that he had murdered his wife - but to kill her whilst she was pregnant…

"She was eight months pregnant, and the baby survived. A little girl - Lydia. But she was deformed…and brain damaged. Father was terribly angry…you saw yourself how disgusted he was with weakness of all sorts. The child…had the most beautiful blue eyes though…" her eyes misted, and I saw Holmes shift a little in his chair. Meredith set her eyes upon him, drew herself up, and continued. "Not long after mothers' death, only a couple of months, Father took myself, Ralph and Jeremy up to the Castle. One day he went out on the boat with Ralph and Lydia. When he returned, our little sister was dead. She had been drowned. Father tried to blame Ralph - said that the boy had fallen, knocked himself unconscious, and the baby had fallen over the side. But father was bone-dry and the boy was adamant that when he fell unconscious, something had hit him on the head. The Duke's son, James, who is now the Duke, after his father's death, tried to save her as soon as the boat washed up on the river's banks. But he could not. So, we buried her in the little chapel at the castle, and came back down to Morton Manor. Now do you see? Do you see why I tried to forget?"

I looked over at Holmes. He was staring at Meredith, his mouth slightly open in horror. Then, he nodded, and said, "There is no harm done. Erm…thank you for telling us."

Meredith nodded, then sighed "River of Death, indeed. That is a little melodramatic."

I felt my lips upturn in a smile, and saw that Holmes was smiling too. "Your great-grandmother," I said "Was obviously an excellent storyteller."

"We must go up to the Castle." Holmes said, his voice loud and commanding, suddenly. "I am sure that that is the answer to the last clue. That is where we will find the treasure."

**Ooh, more reasons to hate that awful Lord Throckmorton. Really, really not a nice guy. Anyway, sorry for the rather short chapter. The next one will be longer, I promise. And anyway, we are on the home straight, as it were.**


	15. Journey into the Highlands

**Normal Disclaimers Apply**

**Sorry for the delay in reaching this point. I had about a dozen ways of ending this, all slight variations (and terrible writer's block), and had to work through to see which worked the best. Hopefully I've made the right choice. You be the judge.**

**Chapter 14**

_**Watson**_

Barely half an hour later, Holmes and I were striding through the halls of Morton Manor towards the front door. Holmes had rushed to the Throckmorton's library to ascertain from their copy of the Bradshaw when the next train to Edinburgh would be leaving from Cambridge, and had discovered that there was a train to York in about one hour, which would allow for a change of train to Edinburgh, then a further change to reach Inverness. The hour was late already, and the sky was dark as we left the manor, retrieving our coats, hats, gloves and scarves from Trevelyann as we went, as well as the valises we had brought from London. There was a carriage waiting to take us to the station, and we walked towards it.

We turned as a cry rang out from the house. Meredith came out, in a riding and travelling habit, a hat and pulling on a pair of gloves. The arm which had been injured was obviously bandaged, but did not seem to be hurting her too badly. I could tell from her posture that her ribs were bandaged. Behind her came Trevelyann, with a valise. She walked up to us and smiled. "Ready, Gentlemen?"

"You are not coming," said Holmes, firmly.

"Holmes…"

"Meredith," I said, "It will be dangerous."

"I know that. I was the one who had to put up with Dimsdale, remember?"

"You are injured," said Holmes, "And we have not the time to hold back for you."

"I will be fine. I am quite well. Look, the Castle is right up in the Highlands, past where many people go. The only way to get there is to ride. I know the best riding stables and the best way to get there. You will not find a highlander to guide you. I am also known at the castle, so we will be able to procure rooms. What is more, if any knowledge about the family is needed, I am the best person. Unless, of course, you should like to wait until tomorrow evening when the others get back?"

To be honest, I could see the logic in her words. It was true that her wounds, now properly bound, should prove no impediment to her walking or riding. If the Castle was in such an out of the way place, the number of people who could lead us there would be few. But still, I did not like it…

Holmes' thoughts seemed to be running upon the same lines as my own, but in the end, he sighed, and said "Oh, very well…"

We entered the carriage, Holmes sitting one side, Meredith and I the other, and heard the sound of our valises being tied onto the roof. The horses were whipped up, and we sped off to catch the 10.23 train to York. Holmes was unnecessarily quiet on the journey, and seemed to be shooting petulant glares at the young woman beside me. For her part, she seemed totally unaffected by this, and instead admired the albeit limited view out of the window.

We arrived at Cambridge with moments to spare, jumped aboard the train and settled into a compartment that started off being terribly busy, but ended up being just the three of us. The silence between us was not unpleasant, but it was not the usual companionable silence that Holmes and I usually travelled in. At around eleven o'clock, we began to nod off to sleep - Meredith first, then to my great surprise Holmes, then myself. We continued in this state until we were awakened by the early morning sounds of the station at York, and dragged ourselves sleepily across the platforms to climb aboard the train to Edinburgh.

By the time we were aboard, the cold air of the station had affectively woken us up, and we were wide awake. Holmes lit a cigarette, ignoring as usual the notices telling him that smoking was prohibited, and turned to look at Meredith. "Well then," he said "Now that we are past the point of no return… why else did you elect to join us on this expedition?"

"Holmes!" I said, shocked at his manner towards the young lady.

Meredith, however laughed and said, "Does there need to be another reason?"

"Yes."

"Very well… I want to destroy the treasure. Does that shock you?"

"Not at all," said Holmes. "I had somewhat expected that that would be the desired outcome for you."

"But why?" I asked, shocked.

"The treasure has brought the family nothing but grief as long as it has existed. The only way for us to be free of its influence is to be free of it. And the best way of achieving that is to destroy it."

"Surely, you could donate it to a museum..?"

"From where its pernicious influence would still hold sway over the family. No, Doctor, it shall not be."

"I consider it to be the right decision, Watson," said Holmes. "The lady is unusually clear headed for her sex. There is absolutely no doubt that the continued availability of the treasure would stoke up all manner of rivalries and unpleasantness."

"It just seems such a waste, after all we have been through. The deaths, the assaults, will be all for nothing."

"Not for nothing, Doctor!" she replied. "Consider that our task is to lay forever to rest the curse of the family treasure."

I thought it best to say nothing more, although I considered this was all becoming unnecessarily dramatic.

The next leg of our journey passed without incident and indeed without conversation. Holmes in particular seemed to be remote from the world, and I knew him well enough by now to know that he was going over all the details of the case so far, sorting and ordering them, compartmentalizing them into clear patterns of cause and effect.

The morning sun was rising as we drew at last into Edinburgh. Our connection to Inverness was already in the adjacent platform, since we had been delayed somewhat on the inward journey by an unpleasantness with some sheep on the line. My mood was lightened however when I saw the standard of breakfast fare that was waiting for us aboard 'The Highlander', the romantic name for what was in all truth a rather run of the mill workaday train. The seats in particular were showing their age, but we eventually settled ourselves into a compartment to consume our purchases. Not for the first time it struck me what a different way of life it was, north of the border.

Suitably refreshed and replenished with the ample provender, we watched as the landscape became increasingly wild and untamed. The train wound its way through remote country, sparse farmsteads being the only sign of human habitation. Rain buffeted the carriage at one point, but then the sun broke through and shone so strongly on the heather covered mountainsides that even Holmes sighed contentedly.

Conversation was still, however, rather limited. I saw that Holmes still occasionally shot Meredith a seemingly casual glance, and I had, not for the first time, the feeling that he knew rather more about what we were going to face upon our arrival than did we.

The journey was not unpleasant, though, and in the middle morning we at last drew into Inverness. The busy fishing town had clearly been recently watered by the rains we had passed through, but the sun now shone brightly as we made our way out of the station and sought transport to the Castle, still thirty miles onward from the town.

Whilst we were waiting for the engagement, Holmes suggested we take an early luncheon at one of the many public houses in the area around the station. We chose the 'Highland Inn' and made ourselves comfortable. Holmes sat back against the wall and lit his pipe.

"Meredith," he said, "there is one thing I do not understand. This treasure – you are sure of its nature? There could be no mistake as to its identity when we find it?"

"What a thing to ask, Mr Holmes!" answered the lady. "Treasure is ... well, you know what treasure is. Gold, silver. Heirlooms of the family."

Holmes snorted. "My treasure, Madam, is far more spiritual. All I am trying to ascertain is that we will know what we have been seeking, when we find it?"

Meredith seemed troubled. "Mr Holmes, people have died seeking for this treasure. Men have murdered innocent bystanders in their pursuit of it. I certainly hope that when we finally see it I will be able to deal with it as I intend. To destroy it once and for all, or at the very least to put it so far beyond access that it will no longer haunt my family with its evil influence."

"Very well," replied Holmes. "We shall indeed see what awaits us. But here, I think, is our meal, and after that, we shall make our way to the Castle and the conclusion of this sad tale."

"What do you think we will find?" I asked.

"A warm welcome, I trust, from the Duke," smiled Meredith. Did I see, for a moment, a glint in her eye? I decided to concentrate on my meal, which was as hearty a repast as could be expected in these wild parts.

It was shortly after two in the afternoon that we finally commandeered a cab to drive us the hour to Kintyre Castle. It was not a pleasant journey; the roads were largely unkempt in these parts and as we left the town the jolting started, and grew steadily worse until every bone in my body was crying out for relief.

At last we drew up to the Castle gates. The place seemed deserted, and since night was beginning to approach we paid off our driver and walked quickly along the curving driveway. I was pleased we had travelled light. Meredith looked up at the dark windows as we drew closer to the house. "I don't like this," she muttered.

"Well, no doubt we will find it pleasant enough when we get inside," I said cheerily, but in truth not much more hopefully. We passed over a wooden drawbridge, the dark water of the moat still beneath us. We reached the door, a heavy oak affair, richly carved with the heads of mythical beasts, and Holmes pulled the mighty chain. The sound of a bell ringing came from the hallway. We listened for footsteps, but none came. Holmes pulled then chain again. Once more, silence was the only response. A light rain started to fall as we huddled together on the doorstep in the dusk. Even Holmes seemed dejected.

Once more he pulled the chain, and at last to our relief we heard footsteps inside coming to the door. There came the sound of a bolt being drawn back, and then the door creaked open.

In the failing light I could see that the gun Dimsdale was holding was aimed at Holmes' head. "Good evening," he smirked, "Won't you come in? I'm afraid the members of the household are – otherwise engaged."


	16. The Castle

**Normal disclaimers apply.**

**Chapter 15**

_**Meredith**_

How could he be standing there, cold as ice, threatening us in this way? How could he have made it to the Castle before us? How did he know the answer to the riddle of the 'River of Death'?

Al these things no doubt showed on my face as our antagonist beckoned us into the hallway with a wave of his gun. The infuriating smirk was aimed mostly at me, though.

"Come in, come in, make yourselves at home," he continued. "I have the Duke and his household quite safe, and so they shall stay as long as you co-operate."

"Co-operate!" I exploded. "You have only just avoided killing me, and your evil torture ..."

Holmes laid a hand on my arm. "No good will come of any of us losing our heads now," he said calmly. "So, Dimsdale, the treasure. Doubtless you want this over as quickly as do I."

"Indeed I do," replied Dimsdale. "I have had enough of this cat and mouse game. I just want what is rightfully mine, and I will be on my way."

"You can't expect us to believe that!" said Watson hotly.

"Believe what you like," Dimsdale replied. "But I am the one holding the gun, it appears, so perhaps we'll do things my way?"

Holmes sighed, as though he was beaten. It broke my heart to see him thus. I wanted to reach out and tell him that it was all right, that I didn't think he had failed, but he seemed to be taking the fact that Dimsdale had beaten us to the Castle very badly indeed. Holmes spoke quietly. "You have, of course, worked out where it is?"

Dimsdale grew angry. "Mr Holmes, please do not think that I have kept you alive to this point out of the kindness of my heart. No, I have no idea, but I have an inkling that by now you do. So if you would lead on, let us be done with it, shall we?"

Holmes smiled. "The 'River of Death' holds the clue, Dimsdale. You know that it flooded the Castle a couple of hundred years ago?"

"Go on ..."

"It was not the first time, nor was it the last. The Castle is not sited very well – yes, it commands a fine view of the loch, but in spate the river swells and can cause considerable damage both to the castle and its erstwhile inhabitants. Each Duke has carried out various works in order to try and prevent a recurrence, but each time the river seems to come back with renewed vigour and undo the defences. Until, that is, the work carried out at the time of your ancestress. Which is, of course, at the time when the treasure was buried."

"Great heavens, Holmes!" Watson exclaimed in a rather excitable fashion – perhaps forgetting the predicament we were in. "So you think that part of the work carried out at the Castle at that time was used to house the treasure?"

Holmes smiled first at me, then at Watson. "I believe that would be a correct deduction. Well done, Watson, you are most singularly improved of late."

"And what is this work?" asked Dimsdale, waving the gun at Holmes as though to encourage him to speak.

"We had the pleasure of a short stay at Morton Manor yesterday," replied Holmes. "The picture of the Castle that hangs on the wall there differs from the view we have seen today in one respect; the bulwark alongside the drawbridge at the entrance."

"In any other event, Mr Holmes," said Dimsdale, "I would say that you were the most matchless mind of your generation. But this is not any event, and I am still holding the gun. Let us make our way to the bulwark, then, and the treasure will be mine at last."

Holmes looked at him levelly. "No good will come of it, Dimsdale. Think carefully of your next move, or it will be the undoing of you."

"I fail to see how you could be any threat to me, Mr Holmes," spat Dimsdale.

"I am not referring to my actions," he replied. He took a breath. "Very well, since you have the advantage, the keys, Dimsdale. On the table, now, quickly. Let's get this over with."

Dimsdale drew out three keys, to which Holmes added the fourth.

"Put them in order of the clue in the riddle," said Holmes, and Watson did so. Holmes studied them for a moments, and then with a smile arranged them into a cross, with the four key handles meeting in the middle. We gasped as we saw that the engraving on the handles of the keys combined to form a plan of part of the Castle. Where we were standing was clearly visible, and a door was indicated alongside the mighty fireplace opposite the entrance.

We ran over to the fireplace and studied it. "It should be .. here!" said Holmes as his hand found a hidden latch on the left side of the chimney breast. With a click a panel in the fireplace's oak surround sprang open, revealing a keyhole. "The first key," said Holmes, and Watson put it in the hole and turned it. With a reassuring click it engaged and a door opened in the oak panelling.

We looked into the dark opening. "Get a torch!" ordered Dimsdale, and then we made our way into the inky stillness.

The passageway was dry underfoot, but headed slightly downwards. Every so often there seemed to be chambers cut into the rock on either side, but the main passageway continued steadily onwards. It seemed to be turning slightly so that after a short while I was not sure which direction we were heading in. The walls started to shine with dampness. I was just starting to feel claustrophobic when we came to another door. The second key opened it, and we passed through into a further section of passage. After some minutes a third door was opened I the same manner, and finally, perhaps fifteen minutes after we had entered the passageway, we came to a fourth door. By now the water was running down the wet walls, and we were wading through perhaps a foot of standing water in the tunnel. I strained my ears, sure I could hear another sound above the constant trickling and dripping. The damp walls reflected the torchlight eerily; but, despite our predicament and the growing madness of Dimsdale, the excitement was almost touchable.

Dimsdale was almost beside himself. "This is it!" he exclaimed. "At last! Very well, you will live to see my triumph, Holmes, Doctor, even Miss Meredith. You will see me take what is rightfully mine, and then ...." He laughed – a cold, cruel laugh. "We shall see, won't we?" Watson made a move but Dimsdale raised the gun to him. "Five rounds, Doctor. Quite enough. Please, shall we? Now, stand aside, and give me the fourth key."

Holmes handed him the key. As he did so, for a moment he clasped his hand. "I do not condone what you have done," he whispered, "but think. Think hard. Do not do this."

Dimsdale pulled his hand away, taking the key. "Do you really think, after all this, that I care anything for your veiled threats Mr Holmes?"

"Not threats. Warnings."

"As you say. No, stand aside." He moved to the door and put the key in the lock. This door seemed to be heavier or stiffer than the others, and the key seemed unable to be turned. Muttering under his breath, Dimsdale struggled with it until at last the click of the lock turning was heard.

He turned to us and smiled - an insane, evil smile. "Now, the treasure!" he exclaimed, and turned the door handle.

The door burst out towards us, as though relieved of many decades of stress and strain. A wall of water thundered towards us, knocking us off our feet and carrying us back up the tunnel into darkness as the torch was extinguished. I heard shouting, a shot being fired, unbearable pain and then, as I descended into darkness, hands trying to hold me. Faint with fear, in agony and drowning in the dark, I surrendered my consciousness to the bliss of oblivion.


	17. Flood!

**Normal disclaimers apply**

**Chapter 16**

_**Holmes**_

I had of course prepared myself for the inevitable disaster to which the plans of Dimsdale had brought us.

As we made our way down the tunnel it was clear that we were plotting a wide, slow semi-circular course that brought us, by the time we reached the last door, to a point directly beneath the moat, under the drawbridge – and at not too great a depth, either. As soon as I heard the dripping of the water in the chamber on the other side of the door I realised that as soon as that door was opened we would be inundated. The chamber behind could only have perhaps a foot of clear air between the water surface and its ceiling.

I do not think that Dimsdale noticed, in his excitement, that I made my way closer to Watson. My next attempt was to secure the safety of Meredith in the same way, but Dimsdale in his eagerness beat me to the line.

To this day I cannot understand how he did not foresee the result of his actions. Clearly his greed had finally overcome him. He was clearly never a rational man, but I did think that the way he had tracked down the clues, and even laid his traps, was the sign of a mind which in the right circumstances would have been capable of great deeds. In his own way, he was another Moriarty. His decision to ignore my warnings cost him his life that day; but not before inflicting great injury on another.

The wall of water that issued from the door shall forever live in my memory. Dimsdale's face was changed in a moment from an expression of triumph to the shocked realisation that here was his death. In that split second, before the water hit us, he met my eye, cold and hard; he turned the gun towards me, but then he was gone. I heard the shot of course, and expected that the force of the water had caused his finger to press the trigger early. It was only as the noise of the water overcame all else that I heard Meredith's scream – not a scream of horror, or terror at what was happening, but that scream that only people who have been shot can utter.

Dimsdale was hurled against the wall, and my last sight of him was almost as through he were a child's doll, crushed and broken, unnaturally twisted. And then we were being carried up the tunnel, pell mell, rolling and being rolled over and over as the water emptied from the room. I tried to reach for Meredith, but she was pulled from my grasp. Over and above the noise of the water there was another sound which I later discovered was part of the chamber roof collapsing, releasing the whole of the moat's water into the underground passage.

Shortly after passing the third door I had noted on our way down that there had been a small side room. The water level was dropping as the wave progressed up the tunnel, and so, struggling for dear life and still holding onto Watson, I tried to find my feet as we approached the room. I blessed my height as I was able to reclaim my footing just at the right time, and I thrust Watson sideways into the chamber, shouting for him to get as high up as he could. It was foolish of me, I know, for of course at that time I had no idea how high the flood water would rise. It was only afterwards that he told me that he had been left standing on a table, terrified and in the pitch dark, with the water up to his neck. I trust he has forgiven me; I did the only thing I could think of in our extremity.

With Watson safe, and fighting to keep my feet, I braced myself against the frame of the third door. I could sense rather than see that Meredith was close, and as I reached out I found her, floating face down in the flood, as she was carried up the tunnel through the doorway.

Were Watson to be telling the story of this adventure he would no doubt at this point record that the next event had been carefully planned by myself, but in truth I was as surprised – although none the less thankful – for it. Light appeared in the tunnel from the Castle, and as I looked I saw torchlight coming round the slow bend.

"Is anyone there?" a man's voice called.

"Yes!" I replied. "Here, quickly!"

The torchlight revealed the handsome, but careworn face of a man who I immediately recognised from the family portraits as being the present Duke of Kintyre. He, along with a couple of his men, waded towards me even as the water rose, and took Meredith's inert body from my care. Telling them to make haste back to safety, I fought my way back down the few feet to the door of Watson's chamber, and after a few minutes we were in the dry, making our way urgently back up the tunnel into the Castle.

We emerged into the Hall to find the Duke bending over Meredith, instructing one of his attendants to seek medical aid. Watson was able to practise his skills, and although his grave face betrayed the severity of her condition he worked quickly and methodically. The bullet wound to her stomach was deep, but the flow was soon staunched and Watson looked relieved. At last he turned to us.

"Her injury is not life threatening, but it was close. An inch higher and the bullet would have taken her liver or a lung; she had suffered multiple blows to her head whilst she was being tossed around during the flood. But she is strong. I think she will make a full recovery."

"She can rest here for as long as is necessary," replied the Duke. "What of the man, Dimsdale I think? What of him?"

"He is dead," I said solemnly. "He did not foresee the inevitable outcome of his actions, and has paid with his life."

"He said it was about the Treasure."

"Indeed, that is what drove him. He wanted to find it before Meredith. She had determined to destroy it."

The Duke smiled. "I can imagine she would want that. Her family have lived under the shadow of that treasure for generations. Nothing but trouble. But she thinks it is here?"

"She knows it is here."

"In the flooded room, I take it?"

"Indeed. Although if I am correct in my deductions, the treasure is not what she was expecting."

"So what now, gentlemen?" asked the Duke. "I must comfort those with me. I must thank Wellington my butler for breaking the door down at the last, although at cost to himself. Once you are done, Doctor, there is a man upstairs with a broken arm who needs yur help."

"We need to secure the lady's health, which my colleague, Doctor Watson, is doing admirably." Watson smiled at me gratefully. "And then, once the flood waters have been dissipated, we shall retrieve Dimsdale's body, and see what it is that has cursed the family all this time."

"We will make the arrangements. As well as, perhaps, some food and fresh clothes for you gentlemen?"

I warmed to this genuine fellow. "Indeed, that would be most welcome," I responded. Looking to Watson, I continued with a smile, "And no doubt my chronicler will wish to start recording his thoughts about this case at once."


	18. The Cursed Treasure of the Throckmortons

**Normal disclaimers apply.**

**Chapter 17**

_**Watson**_

It requires only a short account to draw the tale of the Cursed Treasure of the Throckmortons to a conclusion.

The next day, with Meredith out of danger and tucked up comfortably in bed recovering, and the Duke and his family fully recovered from their short imprisonment, Holmes organised an expedition back down the tunnel. The water had drained away, out through various culverts and channels into the loch. We made our way down the wet passageway, six in all including myself and the Duke, and in due course reached the chamber at its end.

Dimsdale's limp body was still there, pinned to the wall, hanging as though a coat on a rack; the force of the water from the door had forced him against the opposite wall with such force that he had been lifted off his feet and impaled upon a metal torch holder. We averted our eyes from the sight, and made our way into the chamber. Daylight shone through the hole in its roof; water from the moat still dripped to the floor.

In its centre, covered in slime and mud, was a small box, no larger than those used to hold new pairs of footwear. The force of the water and the roof collapse had burst it open. Eagerly I crouched down and looked into it, expecting to see the glint of gold or silver, but all I could see was what appeared to be a small book or tablet, itself covered in mud. We couldn't see it clearly, so the Duke pocketed it and we made our way back to the Castle, a couple of attendants bearing Dimsdale's body between them.

Back in the comfort of the Castle, the Duke carefully laid out onto a table the contents of the box. It was a sheet of parchment, torn and dirtied; even as he straightened it upon the table a section fell apart. It was clearly very old, and was not going to survive long out of its protective housing, especially now it had suffered such damage.

"What is it?" asked the Duke. "Do you know, Mr Holmes?"

"Of course." replied Holmes. "It is the treasure, but not the gold or silver that the family expected. Think about the matter logically for a moment; when the treasure was moved to its present location it was done by one person, for she could not trust the movement to anyone else. The move was done in one night. So straight away we deduce that the treasure has to be something small and easily movable. So we are left with, not chests full of gold and silver which would have been beyond a single person to move alone, but a small relic. Now even were it to be a physical relic – an icon, perhaps – would it really be the foundation of a legend that men would kill for? There are many such icons still in existence today and even if it were made of solid gold, its value would not be worth murder. So it had to be something else – of great value, but of a different nature.

"You are looking at a legal Deed, written at the time of the fall of Alexander Throckmorton. It is a Deed written by the Pope himself, in his own hand, a Bull promising that, upon the restoration of England and Scotland to the Catholic Church, the Throckmortons would be rewarded in the highest terms." He looked closely at one part of the document, and pointed out to us the words of interest. "Yes, there, you can see in the Latin on this part, a promise that Throckmorton's descendants would be Cardinals and Bishops, and receive the wealth of the monasteries stolen, as they saw it, by the English crown. But it never happened; yet this promissory note has been kept all this time against that eventuality. Had a restoration come to pass, the Throckmortons would have been second only to the Crown in the amount of land they owned or controlled. It is an historic document of immense importance – for its own sake as an historical artefact, and for the promises it contains. It promises countless millions of pounds of wealth upon the restoration. Far, far more than its weight in gold, in fact."

"Real treasure, then!" laughed the Duke.

"Indeed," smiled Holmes. "And of course it is still valid. A Papal Bull cannot be undone. It is yours to keep in safety until the promise can be redeemed."

"And still have the curse hanging over the Throckmortons? No, I don't think so, Mr Holmes. It has lain hidden for a hundred years or more, it has caused the deaths of men and women of good character and bad, and will continue to do so. Miss Meredith had the right idea."

He picked up the parchment, walked over to the fire, looked for a moment towards us as though having a last moment of doubt, and then cast it upon the flames. Within moments it was gone.

Holmes beside me sighed. "It is done, then." He suddenly became enthused with energy. "We must go. London calls me."

"But what of Meredith?" I asked.

Holmes looked at the stairs leading up to the bedroom range where even now she lay peacefully sleeping. "I am sure the good Duke here will be able to cope well enough," he said. "It will be many days before she is well enough to travel. She has been wounded severely, and although she is strong she has suffered much. She now needs rest, and plenty of it."

"She will be well cared for, gentlemen," replied the Duke. "It will be my pleasure to ensure she has everything she needs."

* * *

So now I draw this tale to a close. There remain only two more significant events concerning the Throckmortons to record. The first is that, as I think Holmes suspected, Meredith's extended stay at the Castle led to the kindling of feelings in her heart towards the Duke with an intensity of passion she had not previously experienced.

We were invited to the wedding of course, but only I went; Holmes stayed behind, excusing himself on the grounds that he needed to keep an eye on Mycroft who was suffering with an attack of gout.

Contrary to Holmes' chiding about my need to write the report of the case immediately, I am in fact putting pen to paper to complete my part of the account, five years after the events. The second event to record is that, three years ago, Meredith's first child was born. She called him 'Sherlock', and I know he was deeply affected by the compliment; but not perhaps as much as I was when learning, with the arrival of this morning's post, that she has named her second son 'John'.

We three have been through so much together; I think that now, as I close my journal, she deserves every happiness that long life can bring.

**The End**


End file.
